


Overdrawn

by kaguya_yoru



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bigotry & Prejudice, Blow Jobs, Deaf Clint Barton, Discussion of Abortion, F/M, Knotting, M/M, Mpreg, Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2018-06-05 18:59:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 61,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6717172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaguya_yoru/pseuds/kaguya_yoru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All his life, Clint wanted to prove that he wasn't some stereotypical knothead from the slums. A chance occurrence on a flight leaves him struggling to figure out what he really wants in life and torn between new and old bonds.</p><p>Phil has always been about the job: the adventure and intrigue has overshadowed anything else, including relationships. When he meets Clint, he finds himself reevaluating everything he thought he knew about his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this anecdote from Jeremy Renner](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FNbAW1BAp4s).
> 
> I never thought I would write an A/B/O fic or an Mpreg fic. But I'm intrigued enough by the concept to give it a whirl. So, here we are.

“Welcome to First Class, Mr. Barton.” The beta flight attendant gave him a warm smile, her white teeth gleaming against her dark skin. Her nametag read ‘Barbara.’

Clint stared back for a second before pulling himself together. “Uh, thanks.” To his embarrassment, his voice cracked as he said it, as if he were a teenager on the cusp of presenting.

Her smile widened but Clint saw nothing but understanding in her eyes. “Right this way,” she said, showing him to his seat.

As there were only nine seats in the cabin, Clint thought the gesture was a little unnecessary. Another beta female flight attendant, this one with red hair and a flirty grin, stepped up to greet the next passenger in line as he moved further into the cabin. Barbara led him the short distance to the middle seat in the last of the three rows and demonstrated its features while Clint tried his best to paste some kind of worldly expression on his face. His seat had the ability to lie completely flat, an obscene amount of legroom, and its own personal 20 inch TV. He thanked her and sank down into it, grateful when she immediately headed back towards the entrance.

Clint leaned back. The plush seat folded around his body like a glove but he still felt prickles of discomfort across his skin. An eight hour flight lay ahead of him and at the end of it, a chance to make the Olympic archery team. All his life he'd been labeled the stereotypical knothead from the slums with a chip on his shoulder, destined to end up doing periodic stints in jail for the rest of his life. This was his chance to prove them wrong; everything he’d done ever since he’d first curved his fingers around a bow at the circus led up to this one opportunity.

Now that he was just hours away though, he felt like a complete imposter, as if he'd gotten away with the world’s biggest con. For a fleeting moment, he missed Barney before he ruthlessly shoved the feeling away. That part of his life was over now.

He leaned his head back against the headrest with a sigh, listening as the movement past the curtain that cordoned off first class started to slow; most of the passengers had boarded by now. He had kept track of the other first class passengers as they’d walked past: two women who were prone to giggling and had just gotten married, judging from the rings glinting from their entwined fingers; a bushy-haired businessman who talked quickly and furiously into his cell phone; a stern looking older woman with her hair pulled into a severe bun; a nondescript man who settled into his seat on Clint’s left and immediately opened a laptop; a gorgeous, leggy, brunette who was accompanied by an equally attractive man with high, chiseled cheekbones; and a teenager in baggy, distressed clothes who threw himself into his seat on Clint’s right with the world’s largest put-upon sigh.

Their designations were apparent to him even with the high-strength pheromone erasers that were standard in airplanes; he’d always had a keener sense than most. The married couple were a traditional alpha/omega pair; Clint could see the brunette omega’s head resting on the shoulder of her shorter redheaded alpha wife. The businessman and older woman with the perpetual scowl were both alphas as well. It took an unusually long moment for him to place the man to his left but he finally detected the subtle note of omega. The couple who looked like they stepped out of a magazine photoshoot were both betas. 

The sulky teenager who was now glaring out the window hadn't presented. Despite science proving it was impossible to know until you actually presented, usually in your teenage years, the stereotypes prevailed: aggressive alpha, implacable beta, subservient omega. In truth, the only thing that set alphas and omegas apart from the rest of society were ruts and heats, respectively, and both designations faced their own forms of discrimination as a result.

The game of figuring out their designations killed the rest of the time until the final passengers were on the plane. The announcement sounded overhead telling everyone to turn off all electronics, buckle their seatbelts, and place their seats in an upright position for takeoff. The businessman was giving Barbara grief about turning off his cell phone but she didn’t back down in the face of his alpha posturing. Clint smirked as the man finally begrudgingly turned it off and she moved off down the aisle, checking that everyone’s seatbelt was fastened. Clint buckled his own and blew out a breath.

“Don’t like flying?”

The omega’s voice was smooth, curiosity making his voice rise at the end. Clint turned his head to the left to see gorgeous blue-grey eyes trained on him and wondered why he’d initially dismissed the man as unremarkable. Like the businessman, he was also wearing a suit but unlike the flashy ensemble, his held an understated elegance.

“Actually, I do like it,” he said. It was true; he loved the rush as the plane’s nose tilted upwards, being pressed back against his seat as they fought against gravity and won.

The man nodded. “Ah,” he said as if he figured something out, although Clint wasn’t sure what that was. “You seem tense.” It wasn’t phrased as a question but Clint felt compelled to respond anyway.

“I have an important audition at the end of this flight,” he said with a shrug. “My whole career rides on me doing well.”

“I’m sure you will,” the man murmured. Clint felt a warm glow spread through his chest before he inwardly balked at the sensation. He didn’t even know this man and the man definitely knew nothing about him. Still, Clint couldn’t help feeling a small bolster of confidence when the omega followed his words up with a “Good luck.”

The safety video starting precluded any other conversation as the plane began taxiing for takeoff. Clint closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation of the engines revving up to put the plane in the air. It was only after the plane had leveled off and the seatbelt sign had gone off that Clint felt his fears returning. He flagged down the redheaded flight attendant, noting that her nametag read ‘Alisha,’ to ask for a glass of white wine before he began digging through his bookbag. Clint triumphantly came up with the small blue pill just as she returned with his selection and washed it down with a healthy swallow of the Chardonnay.

Clint slipped on his headphones and idly flipped through the channels on the TV until he found what looked to be a halfway decent action movie he'd never seen before. He made no effort to follow the plot; he just turned the volume down low and let the mindless explosions and inane dialogue fade into white noise as he finished off his glass. After Barbara took the glass away, he shook out the complimentary blanket and reclined his chair a little, taking advantage of the room to let his legs splay open in an easy sprawl. Clint let his mind drift, trying to will himself to fall asleep. There was very little movement in the cabin; the lights were low in deference to the late hour and most people were settling down to sleep. Even the teenager had dropped off, his mouth slightly open and head tipped towards the window.

Unfortunately, thoughts about his upcoming competition were an unwelcome intrusion. He glanced over to his left, with the thought of trying to pick up the thread of conversation, but his neighbor had already gone back to frowning at his laptop screen and Clint didn't want to disturb him. He sighed and shifted in his chair. There was no point in dwelling on the fact that there were only three spots on the American Olympic Archery Team. Either he would qualify or he wouldn't and his best chance of doing so would be to get some rest on this flight. He hoped the combination of the wine and the sleeping pill he'd stolen from Natasha would kick in soon.

On-screen, an omega male was shouting about how he could take on any alpha. Clint snorted and shook his head as the actor ripped off his shirt and beat on his chest. Still, his eyes drifted appreciatively down the man’s body, his muscles gleaming with sweat and most likely oil. Clint had been pushing his own body to exhaustion every day with training and falling into a dreamless sleep each night. He hadn't taken the time to unwind in - Clint thought back - almost a month at this point. He shifted again in his seat as the omega got right into an alpha’s face, his bicep flexing as he leaned against the table. The camera switched to an over the shoulder view and Clint’s gaze locked on the curve of the omega’s neck as it sloped into his shoulder. The camera pulled back and Clint’s eyes traced down the knobs of his spine to the small of the man’s back, the perfect space to dig in his thumbs.

A loud cough sounded from the stern-looking woman and Clint jumped. He hoped the low lights were enough to conceal his flush as he realized that his cock lay heavy along his thigh and was filling more and more by the second. He hurriedly turned off the TV and stood up, making his way to the bathroom with his body hunched over to hide his condition.

In the small bathroom stall, Clint splashed some cold water on his face. He was supposed to be relaxing into sleep, not getting excited over some omega actor. He drew in some deep breaths but his body wasn’t listening, his cock plumping more and more, a slight swelling beginning at the base.

Clint frowned. His knot only swelled when he was with a compatible omega, never when he was alone. He fumbled through his pockets for his cell phone and dialed the number he knew by heart. Waiting impatiently for the call to be picked up, he gritted his teeth as his pants tightened.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

Clint closed his eyes, grateful that his best friend Natasha had actually picked up this time. “That was the plan,” he said. “Quick question for you, Nat. Those blue pills in your medicine cabinet: what are they?”

A long silence greeted him. “Oh, Clint,” Natasha said, her voice definitely amused. “You didn’t.”

A stream of swears fell from his lips. “I thought they were sleeping pills!” Clint hissed as Natasha’s smoky laugh sounded over the line.

“Well, they’re the exact opposite of that. The silver fox needs a little help in the bedroom,” Natasha said, referring to her current boyfriend.

“Shit,” Clint said, running a hand through his hair and slumping against the metal sink. He had to immediately stand up as the new position put more pressure on his swollen cock. “Fuck,” he added for good measure.

“Yes, I believe you’re going to have to.”

Clint couldn’t believe his life. “These things don’t just wear off?”

“Not in my experience.”

“I’m on a plane,” Clint gritted out. “I can’t just pick up someone.”

“I’m sure if you explain what happened, the flight staff will be willing to let you use the respite room to rub one out.” Natasha still sounded amused.

“It’s not that simple, Nat. I need to,” Clint blew out a frustrated breath, “knot.”

“Oh.” The amusement was gone from Nat’s voice. “I had no idea it would have that kind of effect.” Both Natasha and her current boyfriend were betas.

Clint splashed some more water on his face, his body suddenly flushing hot. “Shit, Nat, I really don’t need this right now,” he groaned.

“Are you in rut?”

“Not yet,” Clint said. He rocked his crotch against the edge of metal sink, trying to take a little of the edge off but it only served to ratchet up the tension in his body. His last rut had been almost a year ago and he hadn’t gotten laid in months; he was due. “Soon, I think.”

“Clint, listen to me,” Natasha said, urgency in her voice. “You need to tell the flight attendants, right now.”

“Yeah,” Clint said, rocking against the edge of the metal sink again, only half listening to the voice on the other end of the phone. His world was starting to feel a little hazy. “Mm, yeah.”

“Clint!”

Clint jerked back to the present. “Nat?”

“I assume you’re in the bathroom stall. You need to open the door and give your phone to a flight attendant so I can explain,” Natasha ordered.

“Okay.” Clint splashed a bit more water on his face although it did nothing to calm the heat rising inside of him. “Okay.”

He reached for the door latch. A wealth of scents overwhelmed him as soon as he slid it open. He sucked in a huge breath.

“Clint?”

Natasha’s voice sounded very far away. He was too busy picking through the scents to find the only one that mattered, that of an unclaimed omega. The phone dropped away from his ear as he honed in the subtle aroma that he’d smelled earlier; now it was as alluring as a siren’s call.

As he made his way back down the aisle towards his seat, he wasn’t aware of the red-headed alpha sounding a warning growl in her throat as he passed and clutching her omega closer to her. He didn’t hear the beta flight attendants calling out his name either. His every sense was tuned to that of the omega with the gorgeous eyes.

The omega looked up from his laptop with a puzzled frown when Clint stopped next to his seat. His nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed as he swept his gaze down Clint’s body.

“You - ” was all Clint managed to get out before he found himself being spun around to face one of the flight attendants. Barbara had a determined expression on her face.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said right before she sprayed something in his face.

He let out a snarl but she didn’t move an inch. The next thing he knew, everything went black.


	2. Chapter 2

A dull ache between his ears and a dry mouth greeted him when Clint swam back to consciousness. He let out a groan, one hand rising to rub at his forehead.

“Mr. Barton, I’m sorry for sedating you but you appear to be going into rut,” Barbara’s no-nonsense voice greeted him.

He opened his eyes and found himself in a small room, approximately five feet by seven feet in dimension. Even though he’d never been in one before, he recognized it as a respite room, standard on every international flight. A firm mattress lay underneath him, taking up most of the floor space. A small metal sink, similar to the one in the bathroom stall, was in the corner furthest from the door with a tiny mirror hanging above it. A nearby shelf contained a large stack of towels and a few bottles.

Barbara was standing next to the door, looking down at his sprawled form. “I have to determine whether you are currently lucid,” she said briskly. “Please state your full name.”

Clint pulled himself to a sitting position against the wall, gritting his teeth as the dull ache in his head intensified with the movement. His hard cock still pressed against the seam of his jeans. “Clinton Francis Barton,” he said, his voice rougher and deeper than usual.

“Do you know where you are?”

“On a flight heading to Copenhagen.”

“What day it is?”

“July 20, 2015.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

Barbara nodded. “You’re lucid right now but protocol dictates that we keep you in this room for the duration of the flight. Since you don’t have a companion, we’re offering you a sedative to keep you unconscious until we arrive at our destination. Side effects include grogginess and impaired coordination. It usually takes about a day for the effects to fully wear off.”

Clint’s heart lurched in fear, alarm spiking in his chest. He was flying to Denmark alone; the idea of being impaired for that long without Natasha by his side terrified him. Attitudes towards alphas weren't always friendly in the States and having never been out of the country before, he had no idea how people would react to him overseas.

“No,” he said, trying to make his voice sound firm but non-threatening.

Barbara frowned. “Mr. Barton, it’s too dangerous for you to be alone in rut and not sedated. I’m sorry but there’s no other option.”

A surge of irritation rose in him that he quickly tamped down; any anger while he was in this state might be seen as aggression. “First of all, it’s Clint,” he said, doing his best to keep an even tone. “Second of all, I’ve spent plenty of ruts at home alone. Some lube would be nice but I’ll be just fine in a few hours.”

Even as he was finishing his last words, Barbara was shaking her head. “You’ve identified a potential partner,” she said, remorse coloring her words. “We have no choice but to sedate you.”

Clint frowned. A potential partner? He searched his memories, pushing past the dull headache, and recalled the scent that had called out to him once he’d opened the bathroom stall door.

“Once the rut takes over again, you’re going to do your best to get to him. We don’t want you to harm yourself or any of the other passengers.” She pulled an object out of her pocket; it looked similar to an Epi-pen. “This dose is designed to keep you sedated for six hours. The med team has been alerted in Copenhagen and they'll assess you when we touch down.”

“No,” Clint said, pressing his back against the wall, futilely trying to get further away from the sedative. Any anger he felt before had been consumed by the fear taking hold of him now. Desperation was in his voice as he said, “There has to be another way.”

Barbara’s expression hardened, the friendliness from earlier vanishing completely. “I’ve been trained to take down both alphas and omegas and have done so many times before. You are a threat to everyone on this plane and you will be sedated one way or another.”

Clint’s mouth was dry, his heart pounding in his chest. He tried to think of another solution but, no matter how much he tried, nothing was coming to mind. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out but the second wave of rut would be starting soon. He was already starting to feel the world get just a bit hazy around the edges. 

“Please don’t,” he said, voice faint, as she started to advance, “I swear I won’t hurt anyone.”

Her expression didn’t change as she moved closer to him. There was nowhere to go and nothing he could do. He closed his eyes, balling his hands into fists as he willed himself not to move. At the very least, he didn’t want her to say that he’d been uncooperative.

An insistent knocking sounded at the door.

Clint eased his eyes open as Barbara spun on her heel and stalked over to the entrance. “What is it?” she asked after opening the door a few inches, still keeping a careful watch on Clint.

“There’s an omega offering to be the alpha’s companion for his rut.” Clint recognized the voice of the other flight attendant, Alisha, as well as the obvious distaste in every word.

Surprise flickered over Barbara’s expression. “Is that something you want?” she asked, addressing him.

“Yes,” Clint said quickly, even before she finished the question. His cock leaped at the notion, pressing hard against the seam of his jeans. He had to bite back a groan at the thought of sinking into the wet heat of a willing omega after so much time spent being abstinent lately.

Something of his eagerness must have shown in his expression because Barbara frowned. She made him run through all of the lucidity questions again before she was satisfied that he was of sound mind. 

“Wait here,” she said and stepped out into the aisle, shutting the door behind her.

The moment the latch clicked shut, Clint’s hand flew to his cock. His hips jerked upwards, grinding against the heel of his palm, and he bit down hard on his fist to stifle his moans. Pleasure coursed through him with every thrust but it wasn't enough, it wouldn't be enough until he had an omega underneath him, begging him, pleading for his knot.

At that thought, a spark of anger ignited within him, helping to push back the haze of desire. With a monumental effort, Clint forced his hands away, his breaths harsh and loud in the small room as he balled his fists and returned them to his sides. He refused to be ruled by his biology even in rut. Contrary to what most people thought of alphas, he could maintain some level of control.

Even so, he was definitely grateful when the door began to open. Barbara reappeared, followed by a man. With a start, Clint realized that it was the same man who had been seated on his left in the first class cabin: the omega whose eyes he’d stared into before being knocked unconscious. Once again, Clint was asked the lucidity questions; he made a special effort to meet Barbara’s eyes and answer them clearly, fully aware that she wouldn't hesitate to sedate him again if she thought he was too far gone.

“Do you consent to be companions during this rut?”

“Yes,” Clint said, voice embarrassingly thick with arousal.

“Yes,” the omega agreed, his voice smooth and resolute. His demeanor radiated a quiet strength; he stood with his legs shoulder-width apart, hands clasped together in front of him, his expression calm as he gazed down at Clint. 

With one last glance at the two of them, Barbara left the room, closing the door shut behind her.

“Refractory period?” the omega demanded as soon as the door closed, pulling at the tie around his neck.

“Twenty minutes at the beginning, forty towards the end,” Clint said. One hand twitched but he kept it by his side, sweat beading on his forehead from the effort.

“It's been about ten minutes.” The man eyed him as he shrugged off his jacket. “You seem to have a considerable amount of control and we're definitely going to need lube. Think you can last while I prep myself?”

Clint drew in a shuddering breath. The image alone of this man sliding his own fingers in and out of his body threatened to undo him. He bit his tongue hard, tasting the coppery tang of blood before he stopped. “Y-yeah,” he said. “I won't move until you tell me to.”

The man raised an eyebrow at that, disbelief written all over his face, but he continued to strip, slipping each button free on his dress shirt. “Try not to put me on my back,” he said, his words quick and matter of fact, “I won't react well. Hands and knees are fine. I can ride you as well.”

Clint let out a loud groan as his brain flooded with images, precome dampening his jeans. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall, casting about for something, anything to stem the tide of desire. He settled on forcing himself to go over the inventory in his equipment bag, trying his best to stave off the inevitable. One by one, he went through the arrows, visualizing a complete image of each one, down to the individual components of the fletching on the tail, before moving on to the next.

The pop of the lube bottle cap broke through his concentration. Clint bit his tongue again, trying to regain his focus, but he couldn't block out the sound of the omega’s increasingly harsh breaths. He tried to list the specs of his bows but the squelch of the omega’s lube-slick fingers as he stretched himself open made it impossible to think. Visualizing his stance as he drew back the bow was his last ditch effort at maintaining control, but the final straw came in the form of hearing something that was all too close to a whimper.

Clint’s eyes flew open to see the omega, naked on his knees on the mattress, facing him. He was balancing himself on one hand, the other obviously prepping his body. His eyes were trained on Clint, a wary watchfulness in his gaze.

“I'm almost done,” he said, only the slightest waver in his voice to betray what he was busy doing. “How much longer?”

The pressure in Clint’s jeans was almost unbearable, a dark spot slowly spreading along the front of the tented fabric. Sweat beaded his forehead and along his hairline, one drop escaping to travel down the side of his face. Clint was panting with the effort of keeping still, every single muscle taut with tension.

“Not long.” His voice was strained.

The omega nodded, a serious expression on his face. He slicked three fingers and reached behind him once more. His brow creased momentarily and then he shook his head. “This will have to do.”

He moved closer, bringing the bottle of lube with him. Clint drew in a shaky breath. His nerve endings were screaming with the desire to move but he pressed his back against the wall and kept his hands balled by his sides.

“You really didn't move,” the omega said, his voice caught between surprised and pleased. The praise sent a wave of pleasure coursing through Clint, one that combined with the rising swell of the next wave of the rut.

His refractory period was over. His entire focus was on the omega in front of him, the rest of the world gone indistinct at the edges. There was one more thing he needed to know before he completely succumbed.

“Name?” Clint’s voice was little more than a growl.

This close, the omega’s eyes were even more gorgeous: color caught between the dividing line between blue and grey, hazel rimming his dilated pupils.

“It’s Phil.”

The wave crested and broke, lust crashing through Clint.


	3. Chapter 3

Once considered topics too taboo to even mention in passing, these days ruts and heats were being shown more and more in movies and on TV; the image of the snarling, growling alpha in rut driven senseless with lust functioned both as a cautionary tale and a titillating fantasy for the majority beta population of the world. What popular media liked to ignore was the fact that most unclaimed alphas spent their ruts alone. In the real world, a pheromone-heavy scent was guaranteed to garner hostile looks, with some betas escalating to verbal and physical attacks. An alpha in rut was likely to be picked up by the police for suspicious behavior if they stayed outside too long; omegas faced similar discrimination when they were in heat so both designations tended to stay away from public areas.

So far, Clint had had nine ruts in his life. Using spit for lube until he had been able to afford the real thing, he usually surfaced from the haze sticky and annoyed at the wasted time: hours of his life spent fucking fruitlessly in a hand made as slick as he could manage. If there were a way for him to not have to deal with it at all, Clint would have gladly taken it. Only two times before had he spent a rut with a partner and neither time had been with a male omega.

As the next wave of rut swept over him, Clint became very, very still.

His gaze sharpened, everything else fading away, dismissed as inconsequential to his alpha senses, throwing Phil into sharp relief. The omega was older, probably in his early 30s, with dark brown hair that was already showing signs of receding. Toned arms, a trim waist, and clearly visible thigh muscles showed that Phil kept his body in shape. Hair covered his chest and legs, his half-hard cock rising from a neatly trimmed base.

Clint took him all in, cataloguing every inch of the skin that he could see. Phil held still for Clint’s perusal, expression unreadable. After a long appreciative look at Phil’s cock, Clint’s eyes moved upwards until he reached Phil’s face. Holding Phil’s gaze, he slowly licked his lips. The drag of his tongue over the sensitized skin only made desire spike even higher. Every muscle in his body was tensed in preparation. He ached to relieve the pressure on his trapped cock, boxers and jeans damp with precome and knot already swollen halfway to its full breadth. But he didn’t move.

Phil looked back at him, a small crease appearing between his brows as the silence lengthened between them. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

In response, Clint bared his teeth in a semblance of a grin but the hunger in his eyes turned the expression into something far more predatory. He was too far gone for speech, his mind too crowded with lust to even contemplate forming a word. Still, he had made Phil a promise and the tiny sliver of his forebrain that was still maintaining control - the part of him that balked at the idea of him becoming a mindless animal during rut - kept him from moving an inch until Phil gave the word.

Phil’s brow creased further and Clint could see the moment he connected the dots. “You can move.”

The next thing Clint knew, he was buried inside Phil to the hilt, knot swelling to its full extent, as he howled out his release into Phil’s shoulder. Wave after wave of pleasure swept through him, more intense than any orgasm he’d ever felt in rut before. Clint sagged when he was done, forehead pressed against Phil’s shoulder, panting raggedly as his mind cleared from the haze of rut; only then did he realize what had happened.

He had blacked out. It was the very thing Barbara had been worried would happen. Unease made Clint’s shoulders tense, a fact which didn’t go unnoticed by Phil.

“What is it?”

The last thing Clint wanted was for Phil to find out that he’d blacked out. He cast his eyes about and his gaze landed on Phil’s flagging cock. “You didn’t come.” His voice came out several octaves deeper than usual.

“It’s fine,” Phil said evenly. “This is about helping you through rut.”

“We both know that if you come, the tie won’t last as long.”

“Perhaps that would be better,” Phil mused, almost to himself. “We wouldn’t have to tie as often that way.”

Aghast, Clint’s gaze flew upwards to meet Phil’s. “Is that what you want?” he asked, horror evident in his voice. “You want me to - ” He broke off, unable to even voice it.

A single primal need was the primary driving force of an alpha in rut: the need to take care of their partner. For an alpha deep in the haze, it was psychologically distressing if their partner’s needs wasn’t being met, whether that was hunger, thirst, shelter, or sex. It was unheard of for an alpha to spend a rut with a partner who wasn’t orgasming as well; there were even some adventurous betas who liked to “take a walk on the wild side” by deliberately enticing an alpha who was about to go into rut in order to experience the guaranteed marathon of orgasms that followed.

Phil’s expression softened, the calculating look fading from his eyes. “No,” he said, his voice gentling. “No, I wouldn’t ask you do that.”

Too many things about this rut were unsettling Clint: the forced start with the pill he took, the fact that he was locked in a respite room for the duration of the international flight, the fact that he’d lost some time in blackout. He felt off kilter and there was one thing that he knew would make him feel better.

“Please,” Clint said, his voice coming out low and desperate. “Please let me take care of you.”

Phil shushed him, his expression smoothing and gentling. “You already are,” he said in a placating tone. “See?”

They had ended up with Phil straddling Clint’s lap, jeans and boxers shoved down just far enough so that his cock was free. Clint’s cock was still buried deep inside Phil, knot keeping them tied together. Phil began to move his hips in slow circles, in a way that was guaranteed to make the knot brush against his own prostate.

“Feels good,” Phil murmured, eyes becoming hooded as he returned Clint’s gaze.

“Yeah?” Clint hated the desperate eagerness in his voice but his alpha instincts were clamoring to be satisfied. He chanced a roll of his own hips and was gratified to hear Phil’s breath hitch. “Like that?”

“Yeah,” Phil said, breath catching partway through the word as Clint did it again. “Just like that.”

Phil’s cock was starting to fill again, thickening and lengthening. Clint went to spit on it so that he could pleasure Phil another way but Phil stopped him, grabbing the almost forgotten bottle of lube and filling his palm with the slick substance. He guided Clint’s hand at first, showing him exactly the way he liked it, but Clint was a quick study; soon, Phil raised his hands to grip Clint’s shoulders so that he could move his hips faster while Clint continued the rhythmic motions of his hand on Phil’s cock.

Although Clint was focused on making sure that Phil would reach climax, he couldn’t deny that Phil’s movements weren’t affecting him as well. He was warm and tight around Clint, the slick that his body naturally produced allowing for just the right amount of slide and friction to light up the nerve endings on Clint’s knot. The toned muscles of Phil’s abs and thighs flexed as he worked himself on Clint’s cock, gaze intent on Clint’s face. Clint gasped as Phil somehow twisted his hips, sending a shock of desire through him.

“Phil,” he moaned, leaning his head back against the wall, his hand speeding up along Phil’s length, his hips rocking up into Phil’s tight heat. His eyes were locked with Phil’s gorgeous blue ones and it intensified every sensation, made everything sharper and more vivid.

“Yeah,” Phil said, voice deepened in arousal, low and encouraging. “Keep going.”

Another swell was rising in Clint, along with the mounting pleasure: the next wave of rut.

“Phil,” he said but this time, a growl accompanied the word.

In response, Phil slowed down his hips, the movements becoming teasing and slow. “Yes?” One eyebrow arched, a clear challenge.

Clint growled again but he matched Phil’s speed with his own hips, making sure to keep his hand stroking Phil’s cock. As he sunk deeper into the haze, his scrutiny of Phil sharpened. Phil was starting to get wetter, his scent deepening further in arousal, the crease between his brows becoming more defined as he slowly rode Clint’s cock. His cock stiffened further in Clint’s hand, jerking every time Clint swiped his thumb over the slit. Phil was getting close and Clint wasn't going to be far behind him.

“Make your fist tight.” Phil’s words sounded almost like an order, even though there was the slightest hint of breathlessness in the words. “Keep your strokes right at the head. Make me come.”

Clint snarled, upper lip curling. He planted a hand on the ground, his biceps and triceps bulging as he braced himself. Pushing up with all of his strength, Clint raised his hips a few inches into the air, raising Phil as well from where he was seated on Clint’s lap, engorged knot keeping them close together. Using the extra leverage, Clint fucked upwards into Phil with everything he had, keeping his other hand around the head of Phil’s cock, stroking it with tight, quick jerks of his hand.

Their gazes locked, Clint could clearly see the surprise and desire that flared in Phil’s eyes. A hard exhalation and a tightening of his hands on Clint’s shoulders was all the warning that Clint had before Phil was coming hard, the crease between his brows deepening as his lips parted, spurts of come coating Clint’s still moving hand on his cock, breath coming out in harsh pants. The fluttering of Phil’s hole around his knot was Clint’s own undoing and his braced arm gave way, sending him crashing back to the mattress, back arching hard and a loud moan sounding from his lips as a second orgasm punched its way through his lower abdomen, vision temporarily blinded by a searing white.

Clint let out one last moan as the haze receded once more. His full knot still kept him from separating from Phil but the higher functions of his brain kicked back into gear, one by one. A tremble was still traveling through Phil’s body periodically; Clint’s eyes fluttered open and he licked his lips at the sight that greeted him.

The features of Phil’s face were twisted into an almost pained expression but the harsh breaths with the barest hint of moans that escaped his lips belied the pleasure that he was actually feeling. Clint’s thumb had found its way to the underside of Phil’s cock and was rubbing back and forth on the soft, sensitive skin that abutted the mushroom shaped head. Clint sped up the motion of his thumb and Phil’s mouth fell open completely, eyes closing at last.

Clint didn’t move, barely even breathed, for fear that he would break the spell between them. Phil was lost in pleasure, body rocking mindlessly, insistently, on Clint’s cock, taking what he needed in order to work himself to another peak. The tremble running through Phil transformed into an all-body shudder, once, twice, three times, until Phil’s hands grabbed fistfuls of Clint’s T-shirt, pulling hard at the thin fabric as his head fell forwards. The moan that left Phil’s mouth was low and helpless, as if he wanted to hold it back but couldn’t. His body tightened around Clint’s knot in slow pulses and Clint had to let out a gasp of his own; it was almost too much sensation on his oversensitive knot. Come spilled again from Phil’s slit, thick, almost clear fluid sluggishly rolling down his shaft.

Phil sagged forward, head hung low, and Clint was there to catch him.


	4. Chapter 4

Their panting was the only sound for several minutes. Clint’s head rested against the wall, eyes wide as he stared upwards at the bland ceiling of the respite room. His heart was still pounding from having two orgasms so close together and he blinked rapidly, salt stinging his eyes from the drops of sweat sliding down his forehead. The dark brown hair covering the top of Phil’s head was just visible at the bottom of his field of vision; Phil’s forehead was resting on Clint’s shoulder, balls of fabric from Clint’s T-shirt still trapped in his closed fists.

With relief, Clint felt his knot slowly start to subside. This was the most intense rut he had ever had by far and if they’d kept going at this rate, he wasn’t sure if he would have been able to survive it. His past experiences of rut had been very different; in the past few years, he would wander around the apartment he shared with Natasha in between the waves, bored from jerking off every twenty minutes but dick still half-hard with arousal, making a nuisance of himself and disorganizing their shared space until the next wave would send him scurrying back to his room. During the two ruts he’d spent with a partner, the atmosphere had been pretty relaxed in between waves; they’d spent the time joking and laughing together.

But with Phil, even with the haze of rut gone, the air between them felt charged, heavy with potential and promise. Clint’s hands were spread wide across the smooth expanse of Phil’s back; as Phil recovered his breath, the rise and fall of his torso settled into a smooth rhythm. Taking in a deep breath, Clint realized that their scents had already started to mix together with the one coupling and he couldn’t help but let out a pleased sound, his grip tightening on Phil’s back.

Phil’s shoulders stiffened. With one smooth, economical motion, he straightened up - causing Clint to bite back a moan at the shift in position on his knot - and somehow shook off Clint’s touch, his own hands falling away from Clint’s T-shirt.

“How are you feeling?” Phil’s voice was as mild as before, the passionate expression on his face replaced by a neutral one. There was a hint of a gravelly quality to the words, the only remnant of the desire he'd felt moments before.

“Uh.” Even though Phil was naked as the day he was born and Clint was almost fully clothed, Clint felt exposed, as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been doing. It was also a little disheartening to see Phil recover so quickly; he himself still felt like he’d just gone ten rounds in a sparring ring without a break. “Better,” he said but his voice rose at the end as if it were a question.

Phil’s brows drew together. Thankfully, at that moment, Clint’s knot subsided enough for them to be able to separate.

“I’m going to go clean up,” Phil said. Clint had to bite back another moan; Phil’s body clung to his cock even as he drew away from Clint and a small sound escaped Clint’s lips at the loss, despite his best efforts. He kept his gaze averted as Phil stood up and made his way over to the sink, giving him that little bit of privacy at least, and grimaced when he looked down at his lap. His clothes were a mess of slick, come, and lube; there was no way he was going to be able to leave the room without embarrassing himself. Hopefully, the flight attendants would be willing to bring him his carry-on from the overhead compartment when the flight landed and they were allowed out of the respite room.

A frown drew the corners of Clint’s mouth down as he waited for Phil to finish up at the sink, water running from the tap in a steady stream with the occasional splash. A thought niggled at him and Clint continued to look down at the mess that stained his jeans, boxers, and the bottom of his T-shirt as he tried to work out what else was bothering him about the already unusual situation.

Finally, it hit him. “Condom,” he whispered, his mouth running dry. “We didn’t - ”

Phil shut off the water. “Did you say something?”

Fear and nausea twisted Clint’s stomach. “We didn’t,” he said, the words coming out strangled and barely audible. He cleared his throat and raised his voice. “We didn’t use a condom.”

“It’s all right.” Phil reappeared in his line of sight and knelt back down onto the mattress. A towel was knotted around his waist but he was otherwise still naked. His voice was calm and unruffled as he spoke again. “I’m on suppressants. There’s very little room in my life for children.”

Overwhelming relief flooded Clint’s system and it must have been obvious on his face because Phil’s lips quirked in amusement. Clint shrugged, not feeling the slightest bit of shame over his response. “I’m just glad we’re on the same page. I’m not ready for all that.”

“You should get cleaned up,” Phil said after a moment’s silence. “Before the next wave.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Clint said. He stood up on legs that were a bit unsteady and made his way over to the sink. His clothes were a lost cause so he disrobed completely; besides, Phil was still naked so Clint figured it was only fair. He wiped away the rest of the mess from his skin with one of the washcloths from the shelf and grabbed a towel from the same place to wrap around his waist. Gathering up a couple of the electrolyte drinks and meal replacement bars, he walked back towards Phil.

The mattress was shoved into one corner of the room, so that the head of it and one side were flush against two walls. Phil was sitting on the mattress near the foot, his back leaning against the side wall, legs spread out in front of him. Clint noted the faint circles under Phil’s eyes and the stress that had deepened the lines on his face. He dropped the supplies onto the mattress and resettled at his place near the head, mimicking Phil’s pose. They were sitting at right angles to each other with Clint’s feet almost reaching Phil’s calves.

“Thank you,” Clint said. He offered the food and drink to Phil but he declined with a shake of his head. Clint grabbed one of the electrolyte drinks for himself. “You didn’t have to do this for me. And it looked like you were busy.”

There was a pause before Phil answered. “It was nothing that couldn’t wait.”

Silence fell between them as Clint took a long pull of the electrolyte drink. Clint’s body felt heavy and warm, with the relaxation that only comes after a good orgasm. Despite his similarly sprawled position, however, Phil looked anything but relaxed, his brow furrowed in thought.

“Are you okay?” Phil glanced over at Clint at the question, raising an eyebrow in response. “It’s just,” Clint searched for the right words, “you don’t look okay,” he said, finishing lamely.

“It’s just been a while for me,” Phil murmured after a moment, his gaze briefly flitting over Clint’s body before focusing back on Clint’s eyes. “I’d forgotten what it felt like to be knotted.”

Clint shifted slightly, his cock stirring a little at Phil’s words. “Yeah,” he said. He took another sip of his drink. “It’s been a while for me too.”

“You said that your normal refractory time is twenty minutes.”

“Usually?” Clint’s hands tightened on the bottle, a sudden crinkling sounding in the room. “Sometimes I’m irregular.”

“And how long do your ruts usually last?”

“A couple of hours.”

“It’s been fifteen minutes,” Phil said. “Should I start preparing myself?”

The words were said in a matter of fact tone but Clint could smell the sudden deepening of Phil’s scent in arousal. The air between them grew heavy as Clint slowly set the electrolyte drink off to one side. He licked his lips, taking in another deep breath of Phil’s scent.

“You smell incredible,” Clint said, finally completing the thought he'd had when he'd first lay eyes on the omega at the start of his rut. Warmth was spreading outwards from the pit of his stomach, making his limbs feel languid. He imagined a slow, long fuck this time, being able to really enjoy sliding in and out of Phil’s body before tying again.

“What if I prepared you this time?” Clint said, his words almost lazy. He relaxed against the wall as he imagined it. He could see movement underneath the towel knotted around Phil’s waist as he spoke, a bulge starting to make itself known. “Opened you up real slow, made you nice and wet for my knot.”

He could see Phil’s eyes darken. “Is that what you want?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Clint breathed out. He felt so good, his muscles loose in post-coital satisfaction. His head lolled a little against the wall as he regarded Phil under hooded eyelids. “I just can't decide whether to have you ride me again or whether to fuck you against that wall.”

The tent that Phil was sporting already was pretty impressive; it made Clint want to take him back in hand, rub his fingers all over the silky skin along that hard length. But he also didn't want to move just yet; he wanted to savour the mounting tension between them. This rut just might kill him with its intensity but he couldn't deny that he was looking forward to more of the mind-blowing orgasms he'd experienced so far.

“Clinton,” Phil said slowly, voice and scent deepening with desire.

“Actually, it’s Clint,” he started to reply but a huge yawn interrupted him before he even got the first word out. Clint let out a low chuckle in sudden amusement, eyes blinking slowly. “It figures that I would get sleepy now. Maybe I took the right pill after all.”

“Pill?” All traces of arousal had disappeared from Phil’s voice and he fixed Clint with a piercing stare. “What pill?”

Clint was struggling to keep his eyes open now. “Needed to sleep,” he said, another yawn interrupting him halfway through the words. “Thought it would help.”

“Clinton?”

“Clint,” he mumbled right before he slipped under, darkness closing over him.

Someone was calling his name. Clint surfaced slowly through the layers of darkness, a heaviness in his body enticing him to surrender to sleep once more. But the voice was insistent, pulling him from his slumber. As he climbed closer to consciousness, he sensed someone standing over him. In the next instant, something came towards him and Clint reacted without thinking, hands shooting out to grab the person’s arm, yanking it forward while simultaneously kicking their legs out from under them. He propelled himself forward, landing on top of the person with a growl and a forearm across their chest, pressing their back into the mattress with a soft thump.

There was a brief moment of stillness, during which Clint realized that the body underneath his was male, before the person launched into a whirlwind of movement that ended with Clint on his back, the person sitting astride his chest, knees wedged into Clint’s armpits. Clint tried to move but his crossed arms were pinned to his chest, the person’s full weight upon him; he could only futilely kick his legs out, hitting nothing but empty air.

“Phil,” Clint gasped out, recognizing the person at last. Phil had one arm across the front of Clint’s neck and the other behind; that combined with Phil’s weight on his chest was slowly cutting off his air supply. Clint struggled to draw in a breath.

There was a hard look in Phil’s eyes as he stared down at Clint and for a second, Clint wasn't sure if Phil even recognized him at all.

“Clint.” Phil’s voice was as calm as ever but there was an undercurrent of danger to it this time that made a chill travel up Clint’s spine. “Why are you going to Copenhagen?”


	5. Chapter 5

Clint bucked and kicked out his legs again in an effort to try to escape Phil’s grip. But Phil didn’t budge an inch and the squirming only resulted in him using up more of his remaining air supply.

“I told you,” he gasped out, trying desperately to draw in a breath. “Audition.”

“You don’t strike me as an actor,” Phil said evenly.

Clint tried to shake his head but his neck was trapped between Phil’s arms. “No,” he forced out the word. “Archery.”

Phil’s expression hardened even further. “Archery?”

Black spots were dancing in Clint’s vision. “Championships.” He could barely draw in a breath in order to say the next word. “Olympics.”

The pressure eased from his neck somewhat and Clint desperately sucked in air, blinking rapidly to try to clear his vision.

“Explain.” Phil’s voice was deadly quiet. Another shiver ran up Clint’s spine as he looked into Phil’s cold blue eyes. Rut be damned, in that moment, Clint wanted to be as far away from the omega as possible.

“I’m competing in the World Archery Championships,” the words tumbled out of Clint’s mouth, interspersed with gasping breaths. “If I do well, I might make the US Olympic Archery team. That’s it. That’s the only reason I’m going to Copenhagen.”

Phil looked down at him in silence for a long moment as Clint caught his breath. “How do you feel right now?” he asked.

“Terrified,” Clint snapped, fury and fear churning his stomach. He gave another half-hearted struggle but Phil didn’t even blink an eye and Clint knew his efforts were futile. “How the fuck do you think I feel? Who the fuck are you?”

“Are you still in rut?”

That brought Clint up short. His heart was racing from fear-induced adrenaline and his breaths were still shallow from Phil’s weight pinning him down to the mattress. His cock wasn’t hard exactly but not completely flaccid and if Clint thought about it, there was still arousal running through his body, though oddly muted.

“I’m not sure,” he finally admitted to Phil, speaking slowly.

“Have you ever been with an omega before during rut?”

Clint didn’t think that information was any of Phil’s business but, as he wasn’t exactly in a position to argue, he decided to answer truthfully. “Once.”

Some emotion flickered in Phil’s eyes but was gone almost immediately. “Was your rut like this?”

“I can honestly say,” Clint said fervently, “that I have never experienced anything like this in my life. Are you going to let me up anytime soon?”

“Yes,” Phil said simply and then moved off of Clint, standing up and moving several paces away. Clint clambered to his feet and moved to the opposite corner as Phil, as far away as he could get in the small room. He couldn’t help but notice that Phil was half-hard, the towel that was somehow still miraculously around his waist tented in a way that even now, made Clint’s hands itch to get around Phil’s cock.

Clint shook off the feeling. Something weird was going on; he needed to figure out what it was, not get distracted by his dick. He glanced around the room and his gaze fell onto his carry-on sitting near the door, next to another bag that Clint assumed was Phil’s. Clint made no move towards it. Phil was standing right next to the bags and Clint did not want to be attacked again.

“The flight attendants brought the bags in earlier,” Phil said, watching him closely.

“When?” Clint looked around again, as if the answers to all of his questions were somehow stored in the respite room. Besides the addition of their carry-ons, everything else looked much the same as before. Phil was quiet as Clint scanned the room, the only noise coming from Clint’s still-ragged breaths. Belatedly, Clint realized that it was in fact too quiet; the plane’s engines had stopped. “What the hell is going on?”

“We’re in Copenhagen,” Phil said. “You’ve been asleep for five hours.”

“What?” Clint stared blankly at Phil before shaking his head. “That’s not possible. I was in rut. We only tied once.”

“Maybe it had something to do with the pill you took.”

“Maybe,” he said hesitantly. Clint wasn't sure of anything and, at this point, he just really wanted to get out of the room. “Can I have my bag? I'd like to get dressed.”

Phil nodded and slid the duffel bag over to him before starting the process of donning his suit, still clean from him having taken it off earlier and set it aside. Clint pulled the zipper of the bag open and paused, his gaze scanning the inside. Even though nothing looked off and it was entirely possible that the contents of his suitcase had shifted during the flight, Clint had the distinct impression that someone had gone through his belongings.

Clint looked over at Phil, who was in the process of fastening the buttons on his dress shirt from the bottom up. Dark brown chest hair peaked out from the neckline of his undershirt and the weight of his belt dragged down the open fronts of his slacks. With his head slightly bowed, he looked like a simple businessman. Then Phil glanced upwards and the intensity of his gaze sent a shiver through Clint’s body. With a silent gulp, Clint turned his attention back to his bag and concentrated on pulling out a new set of clothes; the fact that he couldn’t figure out whether that shiver had been due to fear or desire was a problem for another time.

They finished dressing in complete silence. Clint rolled his ruined clothes into a ball with the soiled portions towards the inside and shoved them into one side of his duffel bag, hoping the effort would keep the rest of his clothes clean. He zipped the bag closed and swung the strap over his shoulder just as Phil straightened up from his own carry-on, hand resting lightly on the extended handle with an overcoat slung over his opposite forearm and held in front of his body not unlike a shield.

Phil was closest to the door. He knocked on it and it opened after a minute, revealing Barbara on the other side. Once more, Clint was subjected to the lucidity questions, which he answered after suppressing a sigh.

“Gentlemen, this way,” she said when he finished.

The plane was completely empty when they exited the respite room. She escorted them down the gangplank into the airport terminal.

“Welcome to Copenhagen,” she said when they reached the gate. “We hope you have a pleasant stay.”

She smiled but just before she left, Clint saw her give a nod to the security guards nearby, who subsequently focused their attention on the two of them.

“Well,” Clint said, turning towards Phil. He wasn't sure what he was going to say but it turned out to be unnecessary as Phil was already striding away, his carry-on rolling behind him. “Okay, then.”

A swoop of disappointment went through Clint’s gut as he watched Phil disappear into the crowd of airport passengers but he grimaced and pushed aside the feeling. He had more important things to worry about than a weird rut and a strange omega he’d probably never see again.

Clint made his way to baggage claim, trying not to tense up every time he heard the crackle of a walkie-talkie as he approached a security guard and pretending not to notice them lift it to their lips as soon as he passed by. After retrieving his equipment bag from the carousel, he was able to get a cab at the taxi stand, although the driver gave him a too long stare and wrinkled his nose before letting him inside the car. Once he’d given the address of his hotel to the cab driver, Clint gave himself a surreptitious sniff. The scent of omega still clung to his skin but thankfully, his own pheromones had fallen back to normal levels; the resulting mixture could be mistaken for a new claim.

In the ride over to the hotel, his eyelids began to droop. He leaned against the window, fighting the drowsiness, wanting to see the city before he immersed himself in training. Less than a week remained before the World Archery Championships and he needed to make sure he was at the top of his game in order to make the minimum score to qualify for the Olympic team. He was the underdog; even though his skill had been shown in previous tournaments, he was an unknown with an unconventional training background. This chance to prove himself wouldn’t even have happened for him if Kate, one of his students, hadn’t decided to convince her father’s company to sponsor his Olympic bid.

Despite his best efforts, Clint nodded off during the ride to the hotel, forehead resting against the cool window. He woke to the cab driver shouting at him in a mixture of English and a German-sounding language that Clint assumed was Danish. Clint hurriedly paid him, struggling with the unfamiliar coins and banknotes, and then grabbed his bags, walking into the hotel still feeling off-kilter. Thankfully, the hotel staff were polite and checked him in without incident or comment, issuing him a key to a room on the ninth floor.

Grateful for the empty elevator, Clint slumped against the wall as it jerked upwards and began to rise, fatigue weighing down his limbs. Despite the fact that he’d apparently slept for five hours on the plane and had nodded off in the cab, he could barely keep his eyes open. He usually needed a nap after a rut and even though this one had been short, the intensity had apparently taken more of it him than he’d thought. Or, Clint thought with a spike of annoyance, he was experiencing a side effect from the sedative he’d been exposed to on the plane. Whatever the reason, Clint was looking forward to lying down as soon as possible.

He stifled a yawn as he keyed open the door to his hotel room and then stopped just inside the entrance, the door swinging gently closed behind him. His eyes widened as he took in the interior.

“Dammit, Kate,” he swore.

Clint had told her not to go through any extra effort when booking the hotel room but it was obvious she hadn’t listened to that in the slightest. He was standing in a living area outfitted with a desk, chair, sofa, armchair, and a wall-mounted flat screen TV. The sofa faced floor to ceiling windows that boasted a stunning view of the cityscape. Through an entryway, he discovered a king sized bed and another set of floor to ceiling windows with the same view. He caught a glimpse of the en suite bathroom through a door that was slightly ajar.

Another yawn racked his frame and Clint’s eyes locked onto the king-sized bed. He could call Kate and asked her to switch him to a cheaper room but it was only 7 am in New York City. Waking her up that early would be a dick move on his part and he was way too grateful for everything that she had done for him. Besides, the soft fluffy pillow top mattress was calling his name and it was much more appealing to answer the call.

A moment later, Clint faceplanted into the mattress and was out like a light.

*

It took Phil two hours to admit defeat. He’d already discarded his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. The air conditioning in his hotel room was on full blast, the temperature on the thermostat turned down to approximately 65 degrees Fahrenheit. Still, sweat continued to bead at his hairline and trickle down his face, pooling uncomfortably in the collar of his dress shirt. He took another long drink of water, ice clinking as he drained his third glass in the span of an hour.

He opened the tracking software on his laptop and zoomed in on the section of the city’s map that held a solitary blinking red dot. After waiting several minutes to determine that it was in fact stationary, Phil noted the address and took some time pulling up the building’s schematics and devising a few exit strategies. There were members of his team who could do it for him but he always liked to keep in practice by doing it himself. When he was satisfied with his plans, he packed up the few belongings other than his laptop he’d taken out of his carry-on, wiped the sweat from his brow and neck, and placed the video call.

“Coulson?” A woman with long, wavy dark brown hair answered the call, her brow wrinkled in obvious confusion. Her features suggested that she was of Asian descent and she was attractive, not that Phil had ever noticed that about her. “Why are you checking in so early?”

“Daisy.” Phil’s voice came out rougher than he intended and Daisy’s eyebrows shot upwards. “I need you to gather the team.”

“Coulson, are you all right?” Daisy asked, concern in her gaze as she took him in. “You don’t look well.”

“Now, Daisy!”

Phil bit back a groan as her face fell. He hadn’t meant to yell at her but his patience was wearing thin. It was possible that he might have waited too long to make the call.

“Fine, then,” Daisy muttered and went off to fulfill the request.

While he waited, Phil poured himself another full glass of water from the pitcher he’d requested and drained half of it in one go. He forced himself to remain upright in his chair, ignored the way his spine wanted to bend. It was getting harder for him to think, his body crying out for the kind of relief that only one activity could bring. Phil breathed out hard through his nostrils, gritting his teeth against the pressure building low in his gut.

“Coulson, what’s going on?” Melinda May’s stern voice was like a lifeline and Phil grabbed onto it with everything he had, forcing his mind to concentrate on the matter at hand. “Have you been made?”

His entire team was in front of the camera now, looking at him with equal parts concern and alertness, ready to jump into action at his command. Phil drew upon his customary persona, keeping his voice firm and decisive.

“I’ve been compromised,” he said. “I’m going into heat.”


	6. Chapter 6

Various expressions of disbelief showed on the faces of the members of his team.

“That's impossible!” The words burst out of the mouth of a woman with thick eyebrows and an even thicker English accent. “The suppressants I designed specifically - ”

Phil cut her off, knowing that if he didn't, she would rattle on for at least twenty minutes in almost incomprehensible biochemistry jargon with her Scottish lab partner likely joining in. It was true that he hadn’t been expecting a heat; his last one had been three years ago, before Jemma Simmons developed the suppressants that he took without fail. But, however well they had worked for him in the past few years, they were technically still experimental with Phil as the only human test subject.

“Jemma, we can discuss what is and isn't possible later,” he said. “Right now, we have a mission to complete and I'm unable to do so.”

“I can have wheels up in five,” May said immediately although the hard look she gave Phil meant that she knew exactly how long he'd known he was in heat before calling and that they would be discussing that later.

“Do it. Bobbi,” he said, addressing a tall, athletic woman with honey blonde hair, “I need you to meet with Victor. He’s going to be pissed about the change in plans so make sure you smooth things over with him.”

“But not too smooth,” a slight man interjected with a grimace. Like Jemma, he had an English accent. “No need to go overboard.”

Bobbi rolled her eyes. Phil ignored him. Lance Hunter’s on-again, off-again relationship with Bobbi Morse gave him an ulcer; he tried to avoid getting involved whenever possible.

“Daisy, I need you to run a full profile on Clinton Francis Barton.”

“Okay,” Daisy said, fingers already flying across the keyboard of her laptop. “Any particular reason why?” she asked without looking up, eyes intent on its screen.

“He's the alpha I'll be spending my heat with.”

The flurry of movement that had begun when he'd started issuing commands stopped abruptly; everyone’s attention focusing back in on Phil.

“You've never mentioned this Clinton before.” 

The man who spoke was large in every way - tall, muscular, and possessing a presence that seemed to fill a room - but Alphonso ‘Mack’ Mackenzie was a true gentle giant, much more comfortable with helping Leo Fitz with his engineering than participating in the violence that was a necessary part of their jobs. He had a neatly trimmed goatee and the dark brown skin of his bald head gleamed from the overhead lights. His eyes were currently narrowed in concern.

“If you're asking for a full profile,” Daisy said slowly, “does that mean you don't know him?”

Phil gritted his teeth as another trickle of sweat made its way down the back of his neck. Warmth was pooling in his lower abdomen and the urge to spread his legs was mounting. He was running out of time.

“When I give an order, I expect it to be carried out,” Phil snapped. “May, get the jet in the air. Bobbi, prepare for your meeting with Victor. Jemma, find out why my suppressants aren't working. Fitz, help her. Daisy, pull every single record you can find on Clint.”

Everyone began moving again except for Mack and Hunter, who hadn’t been given orders, and May, who was looking intently at Phil. 

“Sir.” Mack’s voice was gentle. “How long have you been resisting the pull?”

Mack was the only alpha on the team just as Phil was the only omega. He was the only one who had an inkling of what he was currently going through. But Phil wasn’t in the mood to discuss his biology normally, much less in front of his entire team.

“I have to go,” Phil said abruptly, ignoring the question. “I'm sending you his current coordinates.” He punched in a couple of keystrokes so that Daisy could have access to the tracker. “I'll check in as soon as I can.”

“Wear an earpiece,” May said firmly.

Phil inwardly recoiled at the idea of anyone hearing him when he was in the throes of heat although he kept his expression as neutral as he could in his current state. “No, that won't be necessary.”

May rested her hands on the table and leaned forward. Her eyes burned into Phil’s even with a monitor and several thousand miles between them. “You're meeting with an unknown alpha and will be incapacitated for days. We need a way to check in on you. Wear the damn earpiece.” Her voice softened somewhat. “I swear, I'll be the only one on the other end.”

Melinda May was one of his oldest friends. Her mother, a tough Chinese woman with nerves of steel, had had a long illustrious career at the CIA, which had sparked May’s own interest in intelligence. However, like Phil, she had chafed at the rigid rules they had been required to follow and had been the first to join Phil’s move to the private sector three years ago.

Their longstanding friendship was the only reason he conceded to her request, removing the tiny disc from its case, colored to match his skin tone exactly. It was a marvel of engineering, a result of Fitz’s hard work to create an earpiece that couldn’t be easily detected and could be worn with a Bluetooth headset to mask the real reason for talking out loud. Powered by body heat, it offered direct two-way communication between anyone out in the field and the team’s mobile command unit.

It was another agonizing minute before May verified that the earpiece was working. By that time, his brow was damp with sweat again and he’d finished off the last of the ice water. Phil felt skittish, like he was crawling out of his skin, antsy with the need to move. The thought of every single barrier between him and Clint who was halfway across town made him want to positively howl. Still, he swallowed his discomfort, wrapped up the last of his instructions with his team and finally, blessedly ended the video call.

The moment the screen went blank, Phil was on the move: shrugging into his suit jacket to hide the dampness of his dress shirt, storing his laptop in his carry-on, and holding his overcoat in front of his body like a shield to hide the enormous tent in his crotch ruining the line of his suit pants as he made his way to the elevator bank. He gritted his teeth as he waited for one of the cars to reach his floor, wanting to take the stairs down to the ground floor two at a time, but needing to maintain his usual cover as a nondescript middle-aged businessman.

Much as he was loath to admit it, having May in his ear helped. She didn’t speak a word but was taking in deep, audible breaths that Phil emulated, using them to keep his mind focused. His thoughts were already beginning to scatter, the heat burning bright and low in his gut. The last thing he wanted to do was to fall into the black, a state when his biology took over completely until his body’s needs were at last fulfilled.

In the lobby, he strode over to the concierge, his pace a bit quicker than usual but not too out of the ordinary.

“I need a cab as soon as possible,” Phil said. Inwardly, he winced at the sound of his voice, throaty and slightly rough.

The concierge didn’t even blink. “Right away, sir,” she said, already lifting the receiver to place the call.

She was as good as her word. Less than two minutes passed before a taxi pulled up to the hotel’s entrance. As Phil walked up to the car, he rattled off his desired destination but the driver paused before opening the back door.

“There’s going to be a 50% surcharge,” he said, hand resting lightly on the car door handle. His expression was matter of fact.

Phil heard the cadence of breathing change slightly in his ear before it resumed its previous rhythm. He knew exactly what the surcharge was for, having been in this part of the world before, but he wasn’t sure if May did. His scent had deepened in pre-heat and it would cling to the fabric of the vehicle’s interior. Since a heavy scent was considered vulgar, the taxi driver would have to spend some time using pheromone erasers to get rid of it or risk losing customers who would refuse to get in the cab entirely. The surcharge was an almost reasonable response to his condition; in some countries, he wouldn’t be allowed in the cab at all.

“I understand,” Phil said evenly and the driver pulled open the door with alacrity, backing off when Phil opted to keep his carry-on in the back of the cab with him rather than storing it in the trunk.

They pulled smoothly into the midday traffic. Clint’s hotel wasn’t too far away, just a fifteen minute drive. Thankfully, his driver wasn’t the type to want to engage in conversation so Phil spent the time staring out the window, scanning the environment for anything suspicious even though he wasn’t expecting any trouble. Like copying May’s breathing, it was something to do to keep his mind engaged, to distract himself from the want heating his blood.

Halfway through the drive, Phil ran out of time.

Sweat stopped beading on his brow. His skin heated to the point where he felt like he was on fire. Catching a glimpse of his reflection in the glass of the car window, he could see that his face was flushed, even the tips of his ears. A deep lassitude filled his limbs and his spine melted against the seat. His scent sharpened and deepened and he could feel the first hints of moisture gathering at his entrance.

May’s voice suddenly sounded in the earpiece. “Coulson?”

“Mmm,” he replied, the sound much closer to a moan than a sound of assent as he’d intended.

“I’m tracking you and you’re almost there. Stay with me,” she urged.

Phil took in a deep breath. He knew she was right. Just a few more minutes and he could have Clint’s thick cock in him once more, the delicious pressure of his knot holding him open and closed at the same time.

“Coulson!”

He straightened up at the command in her voice, rising from the slumped position he’d unwittingly fallen into, legs falling open slightly. However, he couldn’t help pressing the heel of his palm against the bulge in his pants as he sat up, hidden by the overcoat spread across his lap. Phil had to suppress a groan as pleasure shot through him like a bolt of lightning and forcibly move his hand away before he embarrassed himself any further. He closed his eyes and tried to copy May’s breathing again but he couldn’t seem to slow down his breaths.

“Your destination, sir,” the taxi driver said.

Phil opened his eyes in relief to see Clint’s hotel in front of him. He used a credit card to pay his fare and almost tripped over his carry-on as he got out of the cab, feet slower and clumsier than usual. Phil made an immediate beeline for the concierge once he entered the lobby, his carry-on rolling behind him, leaving a trail of pheromones in his wake.

The man behind the desk took one look at him and used a hand to gesture off to one side. “This way to the respite room, sir,” he said.

It was a small room only a few feet away from the desk. Phil stopped in the center of the room, ignoring the seats inside even though he felt a little unsteady, his vision blurring a little. The concierge remained in the doorway, leaving Phil feeling boxed in. He bit back the growl that wanted to escape although he could feel his upper lip curl slightly. Clint was in this building and he needed to get to him. Nothing else mattered.

“How can I assist you?” the concierge asked, his voice mild and expression bland.

“Clint Barton.” Phil no longer recognized the deep rumble of a voice that came from his lips. “I need him. My alpha.”

“Room number?”

Phil faltered. He hadn’t thought to ask Daisy for the room number before he left, had only been going off of the coordinates in the tracker he’d placed on Clint’s duffel bag to figure out his destination.

Thankfully, May was in his ear to supply him with the correct number. “916.”

“One moment, sir,” the concierge said and closed the door behind him.

Phil was at the doorknob in the next instance, twisting frantically at the smooth metal to find Clint, completely done with waiting. When he found that the door was locked tight, he let out the snarl that had been building up inside of him, his voice echoing off the walls. Closing his hand into a fist, he drew back his arm, aiming a punch squarely at the solid wood oak of the door.


	7. Chapter 7

Clint jerked awake. For a moment, he was disoriented, not recognizing any of his surroundings before remembering that he was in a hotel room in Copenhagen. Stretching his arms and legs, he groaned at the pure pleasure that went through him as his muscles tightened and relaxed. He felt energized, the plush pillowtop king-sized mattress giving him one of the best naps he’d ever had in his life.

He was also hard.

Clint bit his lip as he rolled his hips against the mattress, stifling a groan at the sensation. Then he realized that he had the hotel room to himself - no roommate in the next room necessitating that he keep quiet - and he let his next moan echo through the room. It felt good but not as good as Phil did earlier that day. He closed his eyes and remembered the welcome weight of Phil on his lap, the wet clench of him around his knot. The way that Phil had taken his pleasure from Clint, his toned abs and thighs flexing with the slow rolls of his hips, the low helpless moan he made when Clint brought him to climax for the second time.

“Phil,” he groaned on the next roll of his hips, turning his head to let out a harsh breath. “Fuck, I need - ”

The shrill ring of the telephone jolted him from the memory. He fumbled for the receiver and only just remembered to keep a polite tone when he answered. “Hello?”

“Mr. Barton, a man who claims to be your omega is here to see you. He appears to be in heat.”

Clint sat up. “Phil’s here?” he blurted out, never mind the fact that Phil was certainly not his omega. “Wait,” he said slowly, the full meaning of the statement hitting him, “did you say that he’s in heat?”

“Yes,” the concierge said, “should I escort him to your room? Otherwise, I will have to call the authorities.”

“No,” Clint said quickly, unable to stand the thought of Phil in a holding cell. If the concierge called the authorities, Phil would be locked up “for his own good” until his heat passed. If he was lucky, he would be provided with a knotting dildo; if not, he would have to just endure it as best as he could until it was over. “Send him up.”

“Very well, sir,” the concierge said. “We do offer a service package for heat. It includes in-room dining service but there will be an automatic 20% gratuity for each meal and a 30% surcharge.”

Clint felt the blood drain from his face. “You’re adding an additional 50% to each meal?” he asked, voice rising in volume with every word. Quickly, he got to his feet and searched for the in-room dining menu, finding it in a rack on the desk. Flipping it open, he almost swallowed his tongue at the prices.

“You can refuse the service, of course, if you’ve brought your own supplies.”

The only thing Clint had was a couple of protein bars in his bag; they would starve if he refused. “No, that’s fine. I want the service,” he said, making a mental note to make it up to Kate later.

“All right, sir, I will just add that to your room charges. Also included in the package are additional towels and sheets although you will not have housekeeping for those days. Housekeeping services will resume once the heat is over.”

“Fine.”

“We should be up in the next five minutes, sir.”

Clint replaced the receiver and slowly sunk down onto the mattress. The World Archery Championships was in six days and he’d just committed himself to seeing Phil through his heat. What had he done?

*

“Coulson. Coulson! Phil! Stop!”

May’s voice registered when Phil’s fist was halfway to the door. With a monumental effort, he halted the forward motion, his fist stopping just inches from the solid oak wood.

“Phil, you can’t punch through the door. Get a grip!”

“I need - ” Phil stumbled away from the door and sank to his hands and knees on the ground. He only just stopped himself from spreading his legs, feeling slick gathering at his throbbing entrance. “Fuck, I need - ”

“Phil, do you understand? We’ve got eyes on you.”

Phil’s heart lurched. “Not - ”

“No, Daisy isn’t watching,” May immediately assured him. “She’s sending me the feed while she monitors the phone. The concierge is calling Barton’s room now.”

May’s words did the trick. The last thing he wanted was visual evidence of his loss of control. Phil marshalled his strength and rose from the ground. His entrance was growing wetter with every passing moment and his cock was already completely hard. “I don’t have much time,” he forced out, slumping against the wall. “I’m going to fall into the black soon.”

“The concierge is on his way back with sedation spray. Daisy says that Barton agreed to let you up so it looks like it’s just a precaution. Come on, Phil, you’re almost there.”

Phil straightened up as much as he could and grabbed his overcoat to hide his erection. He bit his tongue in an effort to stay focused but the pain transmuted to pure pleasure in his state and instead, he let out a low moan.

“Just a little bit longer. You can do this,” May said encouragingly.

Phil managed to take a step away from the wall just as the concierge opened the door. “I will escort you to Mr. Barton’s room,” he said, brandishing the sedation spray. “And I will sedate you if necessary.”

May snorted in his ear, a sentiment Phil agreed with. If he wanted, he could have disarmed the concierge by now, even in his compromised state. “I understand,” he said instead and grabbed his carry-on.

The concierge led him away from the lobby to a service elevator. It held a faint smell of garbage and the floor was slightly sticky but Phil didn’t care, watching the numbers climb as they ascended.

He was almost there.

*

“Hey! How do you like your room?”

Clint was relieved when Kate picked up the phone. “Hey, Katie-Kate. The room’s fine but I thought I told you not to go to any extra expense,” he said, momentarily distracted from the original purpose of the call.

“I didn’t.” Kate sounded puzzled. “I just told our travel agent to book our normal suite.”

“Right,” Clint said slowly. Kate was so down to earth that sometimes he forgot just how well off she actually was. “Anyway, I called because I have a little problem.”

“What is it?”

“I agreed to see an omega through his heat.”

There was silence for so long that Clint actually checked to make sure the call was still connected.

“What?!”

Clint winced. “I know, Kate, I know.”

“The tournament is in six days! Where did you even find this omega?”

“It’s kind of a weird story but Kate, I have to do this.”

“Clint.” Kate’s voice was serious, making her sound older than her seventeen years. “My father has invested a lot of money in you. Are you going to throw this tournament?”

“No, I’m not.” Clint gripped the phone, heart speeding up at the thought of losing everything he’d worked so hard to obtain. “I swear, I will qualify for the Olympics.”

“I believe you. Just make sure you do,” Kate said. Clint let out a silent sigh of relief. Her voice was curious when she spoke again. “You said that you have to do this. Is this some weird alpha biology thing?”

“I - ” Clint stopped speaking mid-sentence, all of the pieces suddenly falling into place. “Oh, shit,” he said. “I did this to Phil.”

“Phil?” Kate said in amusement. “His name is Phil?”

A knock sounded on the door before he could answer. “I have to go, Kate,” Clint said quickly. “Can you do me a favor and tell Buck? Also, there are going to be a bunch of charges to the room. I’m really sorry and I’ll pay you back, I swear.”

“Clint, wait!” Kate said before he could hang up the phone. “Be careful.”

He smiled, touched by her concern. “Thanks, Katie-Kate.”

“Stop calling me that,” she grumbled before hanging up.

Clint replaced the receiver and headed towards the door. He hesitated before opening it, taking a deep breath and a moment to steady his nerves. He hadn’t been with an omega during their heat since Laura and that had been an entirely different situation. For one thing, he hadn’t been in rut then.

Because Clint finally recognized the banked arousal that had been in his body ever since the flight for what it truly was: the sign of a true rut. What he had annually was just a dress rehearsal for this, designed to trigger a compatible omega’s heat and then to sync, ebbing and flowing in concert with the waves of heat. Clint licked his lips as his pulse quickened, knowing that Phil was on the other side, that he was the reason Phil was now in heat, that Phil had intentionally sought him out. His cock began to fill and lengthen.

There were two people standing on the other side of the door when he opened it but Clint only had eyes for one. The concierge was speaking but Clint didn’t listen, riveted by Phil’s heated gaze, the lust burning in his eyes.

Clint took a single step backwards.

Phil’s eyes narrowed. He took a single step forward, crossing over the threshold of the hotel room.

Clint licked his lips and took another step back.

On Phil’s next step forward, he kicked the door shut in the concierge’s face and threw his coat and carry-on to one side, revealing the impressive erection straining at his crotch.

Taking in a deep breath, Clint filled his nostrils with Phil’s scent, feeling the arousal underneath his skin flare into a blaze of desire. The haze of rut slammed into him and he didn’t so much grin as bare his teeth as he took another step back.

Phil unbuttoned his suit jacket with one flick of the wrist and tossed it to one side as he took another step forward. The answering quirk of his lips only stoked the flames of passion higher in Clint, his knot starting to swell at the base of his cock.

They were in the middle of the living room. Clint let one hand drift over to the crotch of his jeans, massaged the rapidly filling cock with one hand and watched Phil’s gaze immediately focus in on it.

“How do you want me to take you, Phil?” he asked, voice deepened in arousal. “On the floor where you stand? Over the back of the couch?” He watched a shiver travel through Phil’s body. “Or on the bed in the other room? Do you want me to pound you into the mattress?”

Phil moved faster than Clint thought possible in his current state, his hand suddenly fisting the front of Clint’s T-shirt and yanking him so close that his breath puffed across Clint’s lips. “Don’t fucking tease me,” he growled.

Fear made his heart stutter in his chest but it also caused a bolt of desire to go through him, his cock jerking in want. He knew Phil was dangerous, that there was more to him than the nondescript businessman persona he’d seen at first on the plane, but in this moment, he didn’t care. He wanted to open Phil up, bury himself inside his warm, wet, heat, satisfy the need thrumming underneath his skin.

“I’m not teasing,” Clint managed to say around his suddenly thick tongue. “You’re running this show.”

“Is that so?” Phil murmured, his gaze searching Clint’s eyes. Approval lit his blue-grey eyes and a warm glow unfurled in Clint’s chest at the sight. “Then I’ll only ask one thing of you.”

“What’s that?” Clint asked, breathless in anticipation.

Another quirk of Phil’s lips and Clint was fully hard, his cock straining at the seam of his jeans.

“Keep up.”


	8. Chapter 8

Phil’s right hand remained clenched around the fabric of Clint’s T-shirt as he began to push Clint backwards towards the bedroom, blue eyes bright with the fever of heat. His left hand began to undo Clint’s heavy belt.

“Hard and fast the first three days,” he said, that semi-commanding tone back in his voice. “Slow down for the last two.”

Clint nodded, trying not to stumble as he followed Phil’s lead. His hands ached to peel the suit away, to place his hands on Phil’s bare skin again. His cock strained against the confines of his jeans, the tantalizing nearness of Phil’s hand as he pulled Clint’s belt free from the loops of his jeans and every shift of his hips as he stepped backwards causing anticipation to thrum through his veins. As they neared the bed, he was all too ready to feel Phil’s body against his own once more.

But Phil’s jaw was still clenched with tension, a muscle jumping in it occasionally. His brows were drawn together, a strain evident in the slight squint of his eyes. There was an almost military rigidity to his posture, his shoulders stiff, as he pushed Clint towards the bed. At this stage in his heat, Phil should have been compliant and pliant but, for some reason, he was still trying not to give in. It would make it worse in the long run, his biology pushing him to want to tie more often, not giving him enough time to eat and rest, and leaving him utterly exhausted by the end.

Clint placed his hand gently over Phil’s fist and stopped in his tracks, halting his backwards movement. Even the simple contact of his palm on Phil’s hand made him want more but the omega needed to relax before they did anything further.

“Look, I don't know your story,” Clint said bluntly. “Frankly, at this point, I don't want to know. But you need to stop fighting the heat.”

Phil’s hand tightened on Clint’s shirt and his lip curled into the beginning of a snarl. They were only a few steps from the bed, only inches away from finally satisfying the desire of their bodies. It felt like the first moments before the start of a lightning storm, crackling electricity in the air between them.

“I need - ” Phil said and then broke off, frustration evident in his eyes. “Before, you - ”

A low growl sounded from his throat before his left hand resumed its attack on Clint’s fly, plunging inside as soon as he popped open the button. Clint’s vision almost whited out as the tips of Phil’s fingers immediately began teasing the head of his cock. He swore as his hips thrust forward into Phil’s palm, delicious friction causing pleasure to shoot through him, sharp and bright. Clint’s hand clamped down on Phil’s wrist in a tight grip to stop him, the muscles in his forearm flexing with the effort, as he said through gritted teeth, “Phil!”

Surprise and desire flared briefly in Phil’s eyes when his hand was stopped and a flash of insight went through Clint.

“Okay,” he said slowly. Clint pulled Phil’s hand from his pants, keeping his tight grip on Phil’s wrist, even as he batted Phil’s other fist away from his shirt. Phil watched him closely, eyes narrowed. “Hard and fast?”

Phil made an irritated sound in his throat, brows drawing down in displeasure. In the next instance, Clint pulled Phil forward, neatly side-stepping so that Phil’s thighs ended up bumping against the edge of the bed, pulling his arm back until it was pinned to the small of his back. Off-balance, Phil pitched forward, his free hand only just stopping him from falling face first onto the bed.

“Hard and fast?” Clint repeated and grinded his hips into Phil’s ass, keeping a solid hold on his wrist, the cufflink on the dress shirt sleeve digging into his palm. He grabbed Phil’s hip with his other hand, using the extra leverage to rock against Phil so that his thighs were pressed against the bed.

A choked sound came from Phil and Clint could see his hand clench, part of the bedspread balling up in his fist. A shudder went through Phil’s body even as his shoulders tightened up even more, his body unmoving against Clint’s thrusts. But when Clint stilled his hips, Phil rocked backwards immediately before visibly getting himself under control, knees locking to prevent any more movement of his lower body.

Clint briefly pressed his lips together, suspicions confirmed. It was obvious that Phil was used to being in charge in his everyday life, from his commanding presence to his impeccable suits. He was resisting the omega urge to submit during heat, to trust in his alpha to guide him through the waves. Instead, Phil was trying to will himself to overpower his instincts so that he could maintain control. There was only one thing to do.

He leaned forward, chest pressing against the line of Phil’s back, hips tight against Phil’s ass, hard cock nestled in the cleft. When his lips were right by Phil’s ear, he could smell an intoxicating scent rising from the crook of Phil’s neck, intensified by his arousal. Clint couldn’t help drawing in a deep breath, filling his lungs; his knot swelled even more at the scent of an omega in heat and he had to wrestle himself under control, suppressing his own instinct to thrust, before speaking directly into Phil’s ear. 

“I will do whatever you want me to do,” he said softly but clearly. “No matter what position we’re in or how far along in the heat we are, you’re calling the shots.” He paused for a moment, thinking of what to say next.

“Tell me what to do, sir.”

Some instinct told Clint to add on the honorific and the effect was instantaneous - the tension drained from Phil’s shoulders so quickly that he began to tip forward. Clint let go of his wrist, worried that Phil would wrench his shoulder, and wrapped his other arm around Phil’s chest but, at almost the last moment, Phil caught himself on his elbows. The new position pressed Phil’s ass more firmly against Clint’s cock and he had to bite his bottom lip to keep himself from moaning out loud. They didn’t move for several moments, the only sound that of the harsh breaths coming from Phil’s lips.

FInally, Phil spoke. “Fuck me, Clint,” he said, voice raspy and shredded.

There was a split second of silence and then Clint and Phil were moving simultaneously, Phil reaching to unfasten his suit pants while Clint stepped back momentarily to free his hard cock from his jeans.

That intoxicating scent grew deeper and muskier when Phil shoved down his pants and Clint had to bite back a groan at the sight of the slick evident in the crease of his buttocks.

“Phil,” Clint murmured before reaching out to trail a finger down Phil’s crease, gathering slick as he went while pulling one cheek aside with his other hand to reveal Phil’s entrance. Clint traced the puckered rim in a sort of reverie, the haze narrowing his focus to the small opening.

“Clint.” The frustrated growl of Phil’s voice made Clint jump a little. His cock did as well, a bead of precome gathering at the slit. “ _Fuck me_.”

“Right, sorry, sir,” Clint said hurriedly as he wrapped one hand around his leaking cock and guided it to Phil’s entrance.

He closed his eyes as he pushed inside, slick easing the way. He’d missed experiencing this on the plane: the sudden give of Phil’s rim, the way it stretched to accommodate his girth, Phil’s inner muscles working around Clint’s cock to draw him further inside. Clint held himself to a slow, steady glide as he pushed forward; it had been several hours since the last time he’d been inside Phil and he didn’t want to hurt him. But Phil was acting far from hurt, moaning his pleasure as Clint buried himself to the knot, handfuls of bedspread balled up in tight fists as he rocked backwards to meet Clint’s thrust.

Clint would have loved to keep to that same steady tempo, to really savor every inch of Phil clenching around him. But his duty as an alpha was to satisfy his omega’s needs, not his own. More than that, he’d made a promise to Phil that he intended to keep. Grabbing hold of Phil’s hips, Clint withdrew until the head of his cock was just inside and then slammed forward in a thrust so hard, his teeth clacked together with the force of it.

Phil let out a moan so pornographic, Clint’s toes curled into the carpet. He was a sight to behold: white dress shirt rucked up by his waist, suit pants hanging by his knees, entrance stretched wide over Clint’s cock. A secret thrill went through Clint at the thought of the picture they made, himself clad in a T-shirt and jeans, getting the powerful businessman to moan for his knot.

“Yes,” Phil hissed, clenching so tightly around Clint’s knot that Clint wasn’t sure whether he was going to be able to pull out again. Clint bit back his own moan as he slipped free with a wet pop before giving Phil a repeat performance.

The urgency of rut caught hold of Clint anew and his grip tightened on Phil’s hips as his thrusts grew faster and harder, the sharp slap of skin on skin accompanying each one. Phil’s moans had quieted but a sharp exhale burst out of him every time Clint slammed home. A sheen of sweat broke out on Clint’s forehead as the wet heat of Phil’s body drove him towards that ultimate peak, his knot growing larger with every passing moment.

Finally, it grew too large for Clint to be able to pull out again and he snarled, planting a foot on the bed for extra leverage to grind his knot against Phil’s prostate. Phil let out another moan and let his forehead drop to the bedspread, arching his back and angling his ass into the motions of Clint’s hips. Need was burning through Clint, the need to come, the need to see Phil come, the need to see his omega sated and satisfied. He leaned forward and wrapped one hand around Phil’s large, leaking cock, stroking it with short pulls right at the head, just the way Phil had told him to do on the plane.

The pillows on the bed went flying, one tumbling to the floor and the other coming dangerously close to knocking over the table lamp on the nightstand, as Phil yanked on the bedspread with both fists, pulling it halfway down the bed while a long, helpless moan fell from his lips. His hips doubled their movements, working Clint’s knot to wring out every ounce of pleasure as spurt after spurt of warm come coated Clint’s hand. Clint’s own breath stuttered at the feeling of deep, rhythmic clenching around his knot and then he was coming, orgasm slamming through him as his vision whited out, his own hips grinding against Phil’s again and again and again. 

Clint sagged when it was over, breaths ragged, catching himself on outstretched hands on either side of Phil’s body. A few moments later, the haze receded enough for him to take stock. Phil was warm underneath him, body lax and bent over the edge of the bed, forehead resting on his clenched fists, panting from the force of his climax. Clint was still buried inside Phil to the root, his engorged knot tying them together, one knee resting on the bed beside Phil’s hip. His heart was beating a wild tattoo in his chest as he came down from the high of orgasm, Phil’s body still tightening around him occasionally with an accompanying surge in pleasure.

A satisfied grin tugged at Clint’s lips as he surveyed the damage they had already done to the room. That had obviously been a powerful orgasm and one that should have taken the edge off for Phil, evidenced by the fact that he was still boneless underneath Clint. Most likely, Phil would need to rest for a few hours before round two and Clint hoped that he would be able to get some water and food into him before the heat took hold again.

Several minutes later, Phil hadn’t moved from his sprawled position but Clint’s knot had subsided enough so that Clint could ease out of him. Clint was gentle but even so, a small sound came from Phil’s throat when Clint slipped free. Clint collapsed on his back on the bed next to Phil with a pleased sigh, giving himself a self-congratulatory pat on his still half hard cock. Overall, it was a good start to the heat.

Phil stirred next to him and Clint turned his head to offer him water or one of the protein bars from his bag. The words died in his throat as he met Phil’s gaze. Desire was burning bright in Phil’s eyes, just as bright as it had been when Phil had first walked into the hotel room, as if no time had passed at all.

“Again.”


	9. Chapter 9

Clint half-sat up, mouth hanging open slightly, as Phil rose from the bed and began stripping off the rest of his suit with single-minded intent. Phil’s cock was already stiffening again, jutting out from his body and rising steadily. Clint felt an answering desire stirring low in his belly, responding to the needs of the omega, but his cock had softened completely, still recovering from his recent orgasm.

“Do you want some water?” Clint offered hesitantly as Phil kicked off his pants, leaving his body completely unclothed.

“I want your knot,” Phil shot back.

Clint stared helplessly down at his soft cock with only a slight swelling at the base to hint at the presence of a knot. “Umh,” he said. “There may be a slight problem with that.”

Phil’s eyes narrowed. The next thing Clint knew, Phil was straddling his lap, one hand firmly grasping the hair at the back of Clint’s neck, pulling his neck backwards so that they could look into each other’s eyes.

“I haven’t had a heat in three years,” Phil said, voice tight and heated gaze burning into Clint. “And this one is hitting me hard.”

Clint’s eyes widened as the impact of Phil’s statement hit him. He’d never heard of a fertile omega going so long without a heat before; it shouldn’t have been possible.

“I believe,” Phil’s hand wrapped around Clint’s cock without breaking their locked gaze and Clint gasped at the flood of sensation that went through him, the hold almost too much for his oversensitized skin, “that you’re the alpha who can get me through this.”

Clint’s hands flew to Phil’s thighs, gripping the thick muscles. “Fuck, Phil,” he gasped, a shudder traveling through him. Phil’s hand was relentless, stroking his cock from root to tip without pause.

His grip tightened on Clint’s hair and Clint felt a jolt go from his tingling scalp straight to his dick. “Are you?” Phil asked.

Impossibly, Clint felt his cock starting to thicken once more, his knot starting to swell at the base. “Oh god,” he moaned, shivering with desire. Tingles raced underneath his skin, traveling all the way out to the tips of his fingers and toes. He arched into Phil’s hold, panting desperately, even as it felt like too much, too soon.

“Are you?” Phil’s hand moved faster, coaxing Clint’s cock to swell and lengthen, his eyes darkening, intent on Clint.

Clint’s hips twisted, his cock corkscrewing upwards into Phil’s grasp. “Fuck,” he panted, riding the knife edge between pleasure and pain, his body undecided between wanting more or less. Precome welled at his slit, spilled down his shaft, and Phil just used it as more lubrication for his firm strokes. There was a roaring in his ears as he held Phil’s gaze and he could barely catch his breath, feeling the next swell of rut rising rapidly within him.

“Are you?” Phil snapped. His tone demanded an answer and his hand slid down to firmly squeeze Clint’s knot, mimicking the tight hold his body had had on Clint just minutes before.

“Yes, sir!” Clint shouted, feeling the wave of rut crest and break, the fervor of lust taking over him to satisfy his omega’s needs. He grabbed Phil’s waist and sheathed himself in one smooth movement, his hands sliding up Phil’s back to grasp firmly at his shoulders. He thrust upwards into Phil’s wet heat and Phil met each and every one, thighs flexing as he rose up and down on Clint’s cock.

Phil still had a tight hold on Clint’s hair as they worked together towards climax, his gaze still burning with fever heat. They were only inches away from each other, so close that their breaths mixed with every hard exhalation. Clint could feel his mouth stretching into a feral grin, matching the wildness in Phil’s eyes as they came together in a hard and fast coupling. Phil’s other hand slipped into the small space between the bodies, his knuckles brushing over Clint’s abs as he took hold of his own cock, stroking himself at a frenetic pace.

The collar of Clint’s T-shirt grew wet with perspiration, sweat trickling down the side of his face to pool in the hollow of his collarbone. He felt like he was burning up from the inside out, spurred by the heat in Phil’s eyes, the ardor of rut coursing through his veins, the tight warmth of Phil’s body. Clint’s eyes slid closed as he fell into an almost dreamlike state, losing himself in the rhythm of their bodies moving together, pleasure thrumming through him as the shaft of his cock worked in and out of Phil’s body, stopping just before reaching the knot swelling at the base. 

But then reality crashed back down upon him as Phil’s hand tightened in his hair, sending skitters along his scalp and a zing down his spine. His eyes popped open to see Phil’s narrowed eyed heated stare.

“Clint, now!” Phil ordered and Clint braced his feet on the bed so that he could push his knot into Phil’s fluttering entrance with one hard thrust, rolling his hips so that it pressed against that sweet spot inside.

Phil’s lips parted, his brows drawing together. Clint saw Phil’s mouth move silently, forming what looked to be his name, before his eyes closed and his head fell backwards, body shuddering as he wordlessly shouted his pleasure to the ceiling. Warmth hit Clint’s chin and splashed onto his T-shirt, ruining it once and for all. Clint held Phil close as he rode out his climax, biting his tongue at the sensation of the tight grip of Phil’s body around his knot.

A heavy-lidded gaze met his when Phil righted his head, lips quirked in a satisfied half-grin. Clint couldn’t help feeling a surge of pride, the alpha in him gratified by the look of sated pleasure on Phil’s face.

“Clint,” Phil said, voice roughened in the aftermath of climax, “you didn’t come.”

Clint bit his lip and shook his head. He was teetering on the precipice, his body quivering slightly with it. It was his job to see Phil through this heat; his knot would subside if not needed by the omega so his own orgasms were incidental, not a necessary part of that process.

Phil seemed to think differently, however. Leaning forward, he placed his lips next to Clint’s ear. “Come for me, Clint,” he whispered and Clint was helpless to resist, gasping his release as he fell over the edge, insides twisting in exquisite agony as he came, shivering, in Phil’s arms.

*

Clint leaned against the wall of the shower, both arms outstretched, letting the warm water sluice over his head and the muscles of his back. He’d already finished washing up and he knew he needed to move - to turn off the water, dry himself off, and go make sure Phil was all right - but a bone-deep exhaustion weighed down his limbs.

Four days. Four days of almost nonstop fucking. Brief cat naps and quick bites to eat were all they had time for before the heat would take hold of Phil again and Clint would feel the answering call of rut. Clint tilted his head up, letting the water run over his face and into his mouth before spitting it out. His eyes felt gritty with lack of sleep, his head slightly dizzy from hunger, mouth dry from thirst.

The heat he’d shared with Laura had been nothing like this. Her arousal had swelled in slow building waves and the long stretches in between just holding each other close had been enough to satisfy her omega instincts. Their couplings had been gentle and slow; Laura would lay a small hand on Clint’s arm and he would roll over, rocking into her body almost lazily, delighting in hearing her small gasps until she cried out in completion.

When he and Phil came together, there was nothing gentle about it. Love bites littered his torso. His scalp ached slightly from the number of times Phil had pulled on his hair. They had had each other against almost every surface of the hotel room and it showed: the sheets were half on and half off the bed, one of the table lamps had succumbed to gravity and lay on the floor, some of the dresser drawers were pulled halfway out, the desk chair had been overturned and the desk blotter askew, pillows from the couch were scattered across the living room. It seemed almost unreal to feel this much lust, this much passion for one person.

It was just the rut, he reminded himself. Clint flexed the muscles in his back, something in him unsettled at the thought. He’d thought the way the media painted alphas in rut was exaggerated, sensationalism designed to boost ratings and sell movies. It was possible to overrule your biology, he’d thought. Mind over instincts and all that.

Except, this rut seemed to be proving him wrong. With every wave, Clint would lose himself, give himself up to his most carnal appetites. Nothing mattered except having Phil keen his pleasure, nothing would do until he was clenched tight around Clint’s knot, nothing else existed until the evidence of Phil’s climax was painted all over his skin. Then Clint would come back to himself, shaking with the force of his own release, panting against the damp skin of Phil’s shoulder until his knot subsided enough for them to separate.

Clint registered movement out of the corner of his eye, the flare of desire low in his gut letting him know exactly who it was. The large walk-in shower had walls made entirely from glass, turned translucent now with the steam from the shower. Clint straightened as the door swung open and backed up to make room for Phil to enter.

After closing the door, Phil walked directly over to the spray, ignoring Clint entirely. His biceps bulged as he ran his hands over his face and through his hair and he turned in the fall of the water, letting it run over every inch of him. Clint felt his mouth go dry as his eyes ran down the length of Phil’s muscular body, lingering on his large, thick cock, already hard and jutting out proudly. His own dick was rapidly filling, the knot at the base swelling, responding to the call of the rut, to the banked lust simmering in his veins.

Phil finally looked at him and Clint’s cock jumped. It suddenly seemed hard to breathe in the small space, the steam swirling in the air between them choking his lungs. Or was it the heat in Phil’s darkened eyes that was stealing his breath, making his heart beat faster in his chest? Phil began to move towards him, a predatory gleam in his eyes, when he suddenly stopped short, a wince crossing his features. His finger dug into his right ear and flicked something away, something too small for Clint to see clearly through the steam.

Clint had no time to wonder what it was because Phil’s hand was suddenly encircling his cock. His head banged against the wall as he threw his head back, hands scrabbling for purchase against the cool glass, as arousal surged through his body. Clint turned his head to the side, panting, as he struggled to hold on to himself, to not let the rut completely take over this time.

“I need - ”

The murmur was soft, almost too soft to be heard over the spray. Clint opened his eyes and met Phil’s gaze, seeing not only the lust but the desperation in its depths. He must have tried to hold back as long as he could.

Clint’s hand came up and he squeezed Phil’s bicep once. “I know what you need, sir.” Turning, he pressed Phil against the cool glass instead, breathing in the smell of their mingled scents in the crook of Phil’s neck. Sheathing himself in Phil’s body, he willingly lost himself to the call of rut once more.


	10. Chapter 10

Clint’s eyes popped open. The sun was streaming through the floor to ceiling windows. An arm lay heavy across his chest. His gaze skimmed along its length to where it joined a shoulder, relaxed in slumber, to see Phil fast asleep on his stomach, head turned away so that all Clint saw was neatly shorn dark brown hair. With a glance towards the nightstand, Clint could see the alarm clock, dangling by its cord over the side, but mercifully still plugged in.

Six hours. They had managed to sleep six whole hours when before they’d been averaging only thirty minutes at a time. It wasn’t quite over - Clint could still feel the banked arousal underneath his skin that signified rut - but maybe, Phil’s heat was starting to wind down.

_Hard and fast the first three days. Slow down for the last two._

Clint chewed on his bottom lip, worry tightening his chest. Phil had made it seem like his heat was only five days long. But yesterday, on what should have been day four, they had still been going hard and fast. If he hadn’t had one in three years - and Clint still couldn’t figure out how that could possibly be true - could Phil be wrong about this heat? Would it finish in time for him to make the Championship tomorrow?

He needed help, someone who had more experience than him with this kind of thing. Clint eased out from underneath Phil’s arm and snagged a pair of pajama pants from his carry-on. After four days of being naked, it was nice to be at least partially clothed, to feel the soft flannel fabric on his skin, even as his cock twitched from the sudden sensory overload. He looked back at the bed but Phil was still sleeping, his back moving slowly with each deep breath, naked body exposed by the bedsheet half hanging off the bed to trail along the floor. Clint watched him for a moment, his eyes lingering on the breadth of Phil’s shoulders, the visible muscle of Phil’s thigh, the alluring curve of one buttock, before he shook himself and firmly tugged the sheet up to cover Phil to his shoulders.

Moving into the living room, Clint stopped short as he took in the mess it had become. He could see the cradle where the telephone used to rest but the actual handset was nowhere in sight; he couldn’t even remember if he’d actually replaced it when he talked to Kate five days ago. Since his cell phone didn’t work overseas, his only hope was to find the landline among the wreckage.

He was squinting his eyes in a vain attempt to see further in the darkness underneath the heavy sofa when a knock sounded on the door. Clint straightened up and sat back on his heels as he looked over at the door of the hotel suite with a frown. He’d traveled alone to Copenhagen and didn’t know anyone in the city; because of Phil’s heat, he hadn’t even had a chance to meet his fellow American competitors.

His eyes widened as he thought of Kate being on the other side of the door - the only person he knew who could afford a last minute flight - mouth downturned and long black hair held back in its customary purple headband. It was the first thing he’d noticed about her four years ago and half the reason he instantly took a liking to her.

The other half was the way her then 14 year old self had looked him up and down, popped her gum, and said, “Jeez, your bicep is the size of my head. How long until you can say that about me?”

Clint had grinned and said, “Let’s see, shall we?”

She was absolutely the last person he wanted to see when he was like this.

The knock sounded again, followed by a word that was unrecognizable to Clint, considering it was most likely Danish. Thankfully, it was quickly followed up with, “Housekeeping?” in a halting, accented voice.

Clint sagged in relief and glanced around the living room. He definitely needed help if he had any chance of being able to make the phone call before Phil needed him again. Jumping to his feet, he crossed over to the door, quickly pulling it open before the housekeeper could leave. A tall, beautiful even while clad in a nondescript uniform, woman was on the other side, her honey blonde hair pulled back into a severe bun. She visibly startled at the abrupt opening of the door, her demeanor not unlike a scared rabbit.

“Housekeeping?” she said again, her mouth forming each syllable with exaggerated care. It was obvious she wasn’t familiar with speaking English.

Clint hesitated a moment before curling his hand into the universal gesture for a phone and holding it up to his ear. “Phone?” he said slowly, as if that would better help her understand the English word. “I need help finding the phone.”

The beta nodded her head, her lips curving into a brief smile. “Telefon?” she asked, mimicking his gesture.

“Yes,” Clint said, relieved that she understood. He went to step back to let her in and then paused, belatedly realizing that he was half-dressed, the flannel fabric of his pajama pants clinging to the outline of his not quite flaccid cock, and that the scent of sex hung heavy in the air. The beta took no mind however and bustled inside, immediately setting herself to the task of righting the living room. Clint could feel himself bristling at the intrusion, the invasion into personal space, before he forced himself to relax, loosening his suddenly tight grip on the door handle and letting it swing close. The beta’s path through the living room was systematic and thorough, her movements precise; it was only a scant few minutes later before she was holding the handset out to Clint, after having excavated it from the couch cushions.

Clint eagerly grabbed the phone from her, tossing a distracted thanks her way as he hurriedly pressed the keys. He waited impatiently as the phone rang.

“What sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into now?”

Clint leaned against the back of the couch, the gruff voice of his alpha mentor music to his ears. One day at the age of fifteen, Clint had woken up in a panic, pain searing through his groin signaling the budding of his knot, and pheromones pouring off of him in waves. His mentor had been the one to sit Clint down and tell him about ruts and heats, the needs of his body, and how to keep an omega satisfied. Without him, Clint would have been terrified when his first rut hit, unable to make sense of the all-consuming need taking over his body. It had been the first time in his life Clint had had to turn to someone other than Barney to know what to do, his brother’s beta biology giving him no insight into Clint’s plight.

“Buck, I need your help.”

“Kate told me you’re shacked up with some omega.” Buck Chisholm had never been one to mince words or beat around the bush. “Is the heat winding down?”

“I’m not sure,” Clint said, glad to cut straight to the heart of the matter. “He told me he usually lasts five days but this heat seems like it’s been different than his usual ones, more intense.”

“He’s an older omega?” Clint confirmed the guess. “You both been getting off each time?”

Clint was keenly aware of the beta housekeeper still puttering around the living room, which was almost back to normal. He waited until she began to move away from him before speaking again in a low voice. “Yeah, he’s been insisting on it.”

“He’s,” Buck said slowly, incredulously, “been insisting? How is he in a position to insist on anything? Last time I checked, you’re the alpha.”

“He’s fighting the heat,” Clint replied and was surprised when Buck swore loudly. He bit his lip. “Does that change things?”

“The whole point of a synced heat/rut cycle is for an omega to choose an alpha and then to submit to that alpha. You telling me he hasn’t submitted yet?”

“No. Not even after I asked him to stop fighting the heat.” Clint’s stomach tightened with dread. “So what does that mean?”

“It means that I don’t know what happens next,” Buck said, voice grim. “Maybe he’ll stick to the five days, maybe he won’t. Sometimes synced cycles do last longer and if he hasn’t submitted to you - ”

“His biology might keep forcing him to go on until he does.”

“Or until the heat burns out.”

“So this is it,” Clint said. He stared unseeing at the floor, his hand gripping the handset tightly in one fist. The next time he spoke, bitterness and a touch of hysteria laced through his voice. “This is the end of my Olympic career, over before it even began, all because I couldn’t keep it in my pants.”

“Unless you can get him to submit to you before it’s too late. C’mon boy, you can do this.”

“How - ” Clint started to say when two things happened in quick succession. He glanced upwards just in time to see the beta housekeeper at the entryway to the bedroom with her stack of sheets and towels saying, “Hello. What number of towels do you need?” to the person inside, not visible from Clint’s current vantage point. And then the next wave of rut slammed into Clint.

The phone fell from his hand but Clint paid it no mind. Only one thing, one person mattered now. He drew in a deep breath and the scent of beta permeated his nostrils, washing away his and Phil’s combined scents. A loud snarl came from his throat and then he was on the move, crossing the short distance to the bedroom, moving past the beta so quickly that she startled again, the tower of towels and sheets tumbling from her arms to the floor.

Phil was sitting up in bed, the sheet pooling in his lap and doing little to hide his burgeoning erection. His eyes were bright with heat and he eagerly turned his gaze from the beta to Clint when he appeared in the entryway. Clint was on him in the next instance, straddling his lap and pulling him close, one hand at the small of Phil’s back, the other wrapped around Phil’s shoulders, until he could bury his nose in the crook of Phil’s neck and smell his own scent on Phil’s skin.

“Oh,” Phil said softly. His own arms wrapped around Clint’s torso, his palms pressing against the broad expanse of Clint’s back.

There was a slight scrape of a heel against the wooden floor and Clint’s head whipped around to see the beta slowly backing away, as his arms tightened reflexively around Phil. She froze, one hand pressed against the frame of the entryway to steady herself after her misstep, her face twisting in fear. “Leaving,” she said in a scared, accented voice, her hands rising up to the level of her head, palms facing towards Clint.

Clint narrowed his eyes as he regarded the beta, still too close for his liking, her scent lingering in the air. There was something about her that grated at him and set his teeth on edge. Even though her eyes were wide in supposed fear, her body held a stilled readiness that made his lips want to curl back from his teeth. The hotel room smelled wrong, her scent was wrong, she was wrong -

“Oh,” Phil said quietly and just like that, Clint’s attention was diverted. Phil’s eyes were so dark, their lovely color blotted out by the dilation of his pupils. “Clint,” he murmured, hands sliding over the muscles of Clint’s back, his waist, up his chest and along his arms. A small furrow appeared between Phil’s brows as his gaze flitted over Clint’s face and body, in contrast to the slow movements of his hands.

Clint bit his lip as he held still for Phil, waited for him to work out whatever it was that had his expression so puzzled. Goosebumps rose in the wake of Phil’s hands, tingles spreading underneath his skin, and he had to work to suppress the shivers his body wanted to make. Distantly, he heard the front door open and close, the beta’s scent fading with every passing moment, but his focus was all on Phil.

“I need - ” Phil said and then his hand was cupping Clint through the soft flannel. Clint couldn’t help the little thrust of his hips, pressing the bulge of his knot against Phil’s warm, wide palm. His teeth pressed deeper into the soft skin of his lower lip as he forced himself to stop, to wait for Phil’s next move. He’d promised Phil. No matter what Buck said, he’d promised that Phil would remain in charge.

The little furrow in Phil’s brow smoothed. Clint watched as Phil’s gaze travel slowly up his own body, almost as tangible as the touch of his hand still resting on Clint’s cock, until their eyes met. The intensity in his fever bright gaze was still there but the urgency that had been present in his movements for the past four days was gone. A little sigh escaped Phil’s lips, just the smallest whisper of air. His lips curved slightly, the tiniest of quirks. Clint was only aware because he was alert with the heightened senses of rut, attuned to every single one of Phil’s movements.

“I need you,” Phil breathed on a soft exhalation, eyes widening with the revelation.


	11. Chapter 11

Clint’s alpha instincts flared. His hand moved to grasp Phil’s neck, feeling the days’ old scruff along his jawline scratch his palm. “Phil?”

A small sound came from Phil’s throat and he unmistakably leaned into Clint’s hold. Usually by now Phil would have given Clint an order or simply taken what he wanted. But his body remained still underneath Clint even as pure omega need shone from his eyes, even as his erect cock pressed insistently against Clint's ass.

Clint’s fingers flexed, tightening his hold on Phil’s neck for a brief moment. It only caused Phil’s eyes to close, another soft huff of breath to escape from his lips.

“Phil,” Clint whispered, closing his own eyes. He leaned forward, gently touching their foreheads together.

Laura had been a traditionalist; hearing her say, “Yes, alpha,” during her heat had stirred something deep inside of him. It had quieted the doubts that he wouldn’t be enough for her, that his inexperience would show. It had given him the confidence to not be afraid to take charge.

This - what Phil was giving him - was just as sweet, just as compelling. Phil was obviously a natural leader, a born commander used to giving orders and having them get carried out immediately. It was clear from the way he’d resisted the heat so far that he was uncomfortable with the idea of letting someone else take control.

Clint wasn’t sure what had changed in the last few minutes that had finally let Phil give in but he wasn’t taking it lightly.

“Phil,” he said softly, “I’ll take care of you.”

He could feel Phil’s pulse speed up under his fingers, could hear Phil draw in a ragged breath.

“I know what you need,” Clint continued, straightening up and opening his eyes. Phil’s eyes fluttered open as well, dark with desire. Clint let his hand slide down Phil’s neck, glide around one lovely round muscular shoulder. He watched as Phil’s chest rose and fell in another stuttered breath, lips parting with the exhalation, gaze still locked with Clint’s.

“We’re going to do this slow,” Clint said, “just like you want it.”

Phil’s response was to close his eyes again, his head moving once in a jerky nod.

Clint guided Phil down to the bed with gentle movements of his hands, directing him to lie on his side; the brief moment Clint had to take to lose his pajama pants made him wish he’d never had to put them on in the first place. The curve of Phil’s erect cock and the bead of precome already sliding down its length called out to him but he ignored it at first, instead trailing his fingertips along the thick muscle of Phil’s thigh as he climbed up the bed. He followed the curve of Phil’s hip, traced the line of hair from his belly button that flared into a soft thatch between Phil’s nipples. Clint was unable to resist pressing his cock against Phil’s ass as he settled down on the bed behind Phil, his finger circling one nipple, feeling it pebble even without him touching it.

“Clint,” Phil murmured, voice thick, arching into Clint’s touch, his ass pushing more firmly against Clint’s cock.

Clint bit his lip as a surge of desire through his body sent his heated blood south, making it harden even further. He let his fingertip ghost over both of Phil’s nipples, just to hear the small hitches of breath when he touched each tip. He wished he could see Phil’s face, that he had the time to tease Phil properly, but he couldn't ignore the seemingly involuntary continuous movements of Phil’s hips, the copious slick from Phil’s ass beginning to coat the front of his own thighs, the wordless pleas of Phil’s body. Clint lined up his cock and began to push the head inside.

Phil’s hole clamped down on him as soon as he popped past the tight ring, startling a sharp exhalation from him. Clint leaned his forehead against the short hairs at the nape of Phil’s neck and struggled to catch his breath. Phil moved restlessly, another small sound coming from his throat, and Clint immediately tightened his arms, lust washing over him, the urge to thrust almost overwhelming.

“Fuck, Phil, _stay still_.”

Phil immediately froze, the only movement coming from the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Clint blew out a long breath as he regained control and moving slowly, carefully, threw his leg over Phil’s thigh. With the new position, he had the leverage he needed to be able to push into Phil in one smooth glide, causing the most delicious gasp to fall from Phil’s lips. His heart sped up at the sound and for a brief moment, Clint wanted to throw caution to the wind, wanted to thrust into Phil just as hard and as fast as his body was urging him to do, to see just how quickly he could make those sounds come from Phil’s throat.

Instead, he forced his hips to withdraw in a slide that was just as slow, gratified by the way Phil panted and shook in his arms. Another slow thrust and Phil moaned, low and desperate, breath hitching at the end when Clint pressed his knot right against his entrance. It was intoxicating to feel Phil struggle to stay still, to hear him voice his need, and the urge to thrust hard and fast faded under the desire to lose himself in Phil’s pleasure; he didn’t even try to resist as he let the rut take over.

“Clint,” Phil finally groaned an indeterminate amount of time later, fingers scrabbling at Clint’s forearms. His body opened beautifully under the onslaught of another forward thrust, his voice breaking halfway through another moan.

Clint had lost count of how many times he’d worked his hips in and out at the same slow pace, feeling Phil shudder and shake in his arms. A thin sheet of sweat covered them both and his thighs were covered in Phil’s slick, making everything feel hotter and wetter and more intimate than it had any right to be. Clint’s engorged knot was throbbing, aching in want as he moved his hips in slow rolls against Phil’s entrance, feeling it try to greedily draw him inside.

Another shudder racked Phil’s body. “Clint!” he cried out, tone pleading for more, a hand finally gaining purchase on Clint’s arm and gripping tight, the desperate strength of it rousing Clint from the dreamlike state of rut he’d fallen into.

Clint pulled Phil closer, burying his nose in the crook of Phil’s neck where his scent was strongest, buttocks clenching as he worked his knot against Phil’s wet hole. Great shuddering gasps were coming from Phil now and Clint knew he wasn’t going to last much longer. Pulling back a little, Clint’s hips then slammed forward in a powerful thrust, pushing his engorged knot inside Phil just as his hand reached down to firmly wrap around Phil’s large, leaking cock.

For a moment, time seemed to stop. Pleasure so sharp it almost felt like pain shot through Clint as the warm, wet heat of Phil clenched tight around the sensitive knot at the base of his cock. His breath seized in his chest and he wasn’t entirely sure but his heart seemed to skip a beat.

Then Phil was moaning, “Oh, oh, oh,” his body twisting like a livewire in Clint’s arms. Clint forced himself to move his hand, stroking Phil from root to tip, and the words dissolved into thick moans, each one going straight to Clint’s dick. Clint’s hips seemed to have taken on a life of their own, grinding his knot against Phil’s prostate, each forceful thrust rocking Phil’s cock into his moving fist. His bicep flexed as he increased the speed of his strokes, the precome already coating the shaft easing the way.

Clint panted against the damp skin of Phil’s neck, feeling need coiling low in his gut, lust crowding out every thought in his head other than getting Phil to that peak. He swiped his thumb across the very tip of Phil’s cock and Phil let out a startled cry. Suddenly, Phil was pulling Clint’s head even more firmly against the crook of his neck, thighs clenching as he worked himself on Clint’s knot. In the next moment, lost in passion, Clint’s teeth sunk into the soft skin.

For the second time, Phil froze. And then warmth was coating Clint’s hand as Phil groaned out his release, his body clenching around Clint’s knot impossibly tight. Need twisted sharply in his gut and his own orgasm hit him like a freight train, blood roaring in his ears, vision exploding into white, stealing the very breath from his lungs. When he came back to himself, a warm, deep lassitude was stealing into his limbs, his knot tying him to a still panting Phil.

Clint buried his nose back into the crook of Phil’s neck as he waited for his knot to subside, breathing in their combined scents. Phil’s body was almost too warm against him but Clint didn’t mind, gathering Phil closer, his own mouth curving gently in satisfied pleasure as Phil moved easily into his arms.

*

Consciousness crept back slowly. Exhaustion weighed down his limbs and there was a heaviness to his eyelids that was difficult to overcome. Clint peeled them open and two things became immediately apparent.

Gone was the simmering need underneath his skin, the relentless lust that had flooded his body. The rut was over.

Gone too was Phil. Clint blinked slowly, staring at the empty twisted sheets. He slid his hand across the smooth fabric, feeling the space next to him; it was cold.

Movement out of the corner of his eye had him sitting up in bed, so quickly that he felt a little dizzy once fully upright. Night had fallen but moonlight poured through the window, cool blue light partially illuminating the room, trying but failing to encroach upon the stark shadows gathered in the corners.

Phil was facing away from him, sifting through the contents of his carry-on. He must have heard Clint sit up because his hands paused. He was still unclothed and Clint couldn’t help but appreciate the musculature of Phil’s back, thrown into sharp relief in the moonlight, and the glow of the paler skin of his round ass. But he was also struck by a vulnerability to Phil’s posture that hadn’t been there before the rut - a slight rounding of the shoulders - that was only emphasized by the careful way he turned around. A shadow fell across Phil’s face and the tops of his shoulders as he turned, obscuring the details of his expression from Clint’s eyes.

Clint hesitated before asking the question that sprang to mind but he needed to know. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” Phil’s Adam’s apple bobbed once and when he spoke again, his voice was a little stronger. “No, I’m fine.”

Clint licked his dry lips, unsure of what to say next. The rut was over; they were back to being virtual strangers with only a shared flight destination to tie them together.

Phil was the one to break the heavy silence that had fallen between them. “I’m going to take a shower,” he said. There was a faint hint of that familiar commanding tone in his voice. “A friend will be here soon to pick me up. Please let her in when she arrives.”

“Yeah,” Clint was quick to reply, “of course.”

Phil turned and gathered up some clothes before making his way to the bathroom. The door shut behind him with a gentle click and a few moments later Clint heard the sound of water hitting the tile.

Clint rubbed the back of his neck and blew out a long breath. All of the confidence he’d had during the rut had deserted him. He had no idea what to do or to say to Phil. Suddenly full of nervous energy, he jumped out of bed, grabbing an electrolyte drink after tugging his pajama pants back on. He drained the bottle in one long swallow and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand when he was done.

The truth was that this was it. He shouldn’t be struggling with what he should say to Phil because he was never going to see him again. In the morning, Clint would need all of his energy and focus to score enough points to qualify. If he managed to pull off that small miracle, then he would need to embark on intense training for the Olympics games. He didn’t have time for distractions. There was no reason for him to cross paths with Phil again.

So why did that thought make him feel empty inside?

The knock that sounded on the door of the hotel suite was a welcome distraction. Clint snagged a shirt from his duffel bag on his way to answer it, not wanting to open the door half naked like last time. Another female beta was on the other side of the door when he swung it open - this one petite and dressed in all black leather - and the glare she leveled his way from her almond-shaped eyes made his mouth run dry in sudden fear.

“Move.”

Clint immediately took a step back, stumbling slightly over his feet. He didn’t dare protest; the waves of hostility coming from the Asian beta rivaled any he’d seen from an alpha in rut and despite her small size, he was sure that she could take him down. She took one step inside, her gaze sweeping through the suite in a glance that somehow seemed to catalogue everything in sight, before she headed directly towards the bathroom where the shower was still running. Every single movement the beta made was precise and economical and the sight of it tugged at his memory.

Closing the door behind her, Clint frowned.


	12. Chapter 12

The fine shivers traveling through Phil’s body had finally stopped. After spending five days with heat traveling through his veins, the relative coolness of the hotel room had felt arctic in comparison. His muscles were starting to relax and lengthen as steam steadily filled the bathroom, soft clouds rising from the water hitting the tiled floor before dissipating into the air. His image in the mirror was starting to get distorted, fog creeping across the glass and blurring the details of his face.

But the mark on his shoulder stood out all too clearly.

Almost without his volition, one hand rose to trace its contours, the purple-red bruising standing out sharply against his pale skin. The tingling of the sensitized skin sent another tremor through his body, a rush of air whistling out between his teeth.

He remembered bits and pieces. The intense pleasure that coursed through him. The frantic desperateness of his own cries. Pulling Clint’s head down, pulling him near. Wanting, needing that last push, just that little bit more. The shock, the jerk of his own body, and then the fall over that ultimate edge.

He had never experienced a heat like that before. His annual heats were a nuisance, something to be endured until he got back to his real life. It was part of the reason he’d agreed to be Jemma’s guinea pig for the suppressants she was developing and for the past three years, he had been free of the pressure of having to succumb to his hormones for a week. That relief had been worth going through the side effects of the first few formulas.

Everybody had been surprised when he’d presented as an omega. From an early age, he had been focused and authoritative; he had been the natural leader of any play date as a toddler, any group activity while in elementary school, any club in middle school, and any study group in high school. A yearning inside of him made him strive for the best and demand the best of the people around him in a way that no one faulted or took offense. He’d made friends easily and been voted both ‘Most Popular’ and ‘Most Likely to Succeed’ by landslide votes in his high school yearbook.

He had been a late bloomer, his pheromones surging in the middle of the summer before college, sending him gasping to his knees on the grass. It had been on one of the few days he’d allowed himself to relax and he’d been playing soccer with his friends, most of whom had already presented. He’d been expecting it to happen soon - he’d had been out of sorts for weeks - but instead of a pain through his groin, a rush of fluid had dampened the back of his shorts. His eyes had widened with the implication, even as the change in his scent confirmed it.

It had been the beta females in his group who had gotten him safely home. The alpha males had been barely able to restrain themselves, the smell of a newly ripe omega in heat too tantalizing to resist. He had been stuffed unceremoniously in the back of a car and had spent the ride back to his house half out of his mind with a hunger he had never known before. He had emerged from his bedroom five days later, determined to never let a heat take him over like that again.

The door to the bathroom opened, bringing with it a rush of cool air, and Phil jerked his hand away. After seeing who it was, he didn’t bother to try to cover up. He was about to take a shower and May had seen him in far worse situations anyway.

“You okay?” May’s eyes narrowed as she took in the bruise on his shoulder.

“I’m fine,” Phil said. The thickness of his voice and the crack halfway through lessened the credibility of the words.

Silence stretched between them and Phil let it, closing his eyes against May’s intense gaze. He didn’t want to talk.

“I’ll be outside.” May’s voice had gentled somewhat. Phil kept his eyes closed until she left.

When he was alone once more, he turned towards the shower. He methodically washed his body from head to toe, scrubbing at his hair and skin, purposefully keeping his mind blank. A razor, small canister of shaving cream, and toothbrush were waiting for him on the edge of the sink when he stepped out of the shower stall, no doubt left by May. The mirror was completely obscured but he resolutely kept his gaze from it, far too used to shaving by touch alone to need one. When he finished brushing his teeth, he turned his attention to the clothes waiting for him.

They were a little wrinkled but slipping on each piece of the suit made him feel as if he was taking one step closer back to his old self. He was Phil Coulson, director of SHIELD, a private company contracted by the CIA to investigate that which threatened the security of America without the restrictions of the red tape that bound government. He had a team of skilled agents under his leadership and an as far unblemished track record in apprehending wanted suspects.

Having a heat didn’t change any of that.

The temperature of the bathroom was stifling once he’d donned the wool suit so it was a relief to step into the bedroom. May had taken up a sentinel position to one side of the bathroom door, leveling her trademark glare onto Clint. Clint looked uncomfortable, mouth twisted into a frown, but hadn’t backed down, crossing his arms and holding May’s gaze. His eyes immediately turned to Phil once the door opened and he straightened up, hands dropping to his sides.

“Phil,” he said, “are you - ?”

“I’m fine,” Phil said and was satisfied to hear his voice come out steady and strong this time. He moved closer to Clint so that they were within reaching distance. “I wanted to thank you for seeing me through my heat.”

“Uh, sure,” Clint said. He shrugged, a rueful look on his face. “I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?”

Phil could feel his own expression shuttering in response. This close to the heat, it was difficult for him to police his emotions.

Clint’s eyes widened. “I didn’t mean - “ he said before trailing off. He nervously licked his lips.

“It’s fine,” Phil said shortly, annoyance surging within him even as his gaze dropped to Clint’s mouth, to that bright pink tongue trailing along his bottom lip. They hadn’t kissed, not once during the heat, and he wondered what it would be like to plunder that mouth, to show Clint that being an omega didn’t mean that he couldn’t be in charge, that the last day of his heat didn’t erase everything that had happened before.

“Coulson,” May said, breaking the tense moment. “We need to go.”

“Right,” Phil said sharply, heeding her voice and turning away. He had an investigation to continue and a team to lead. He didn’t have time for this.

“Wait,” Clint said. Phil paused and glanced back at him. Some emotion flashed through Clint’s eyes, too quickly for Phil to see, and then a corner of Clint’s mouth lifted. “Thank you for seeing me through my rut.”

Amusement shot through Phil despite himself; it was an unorthodox and unexpected thing for an alpha to say. “Goodbye, Clint,” he said, his voice a little gentler. “And good luck.”

Clint’s lips curved into a grin, small but genuine, and he nodded. Phil held his gaze for a moment longer before turning towards the door of the hotel suite, where May was waiting with his coat and carry-on. In less than a minute, they were striding down the hotel hallway towards the elevator, the door of Clint’s suite swinging shut behind them with a firm click.

“Keys,” Phil said, once the elevator doors opened on the ground floor.

May scoffed. “You’ve spent the past five days without sleep or food,” she said, cutting her eyes toward him. “You’re not driving.”

Phil didn’t bother to protest. Now that they were out of Clint’s hotel room, a wave of exhaustion had swept over him. The hot shower had done its job all too well, making his muscles relaxed and pliant, and it took all of his concentration to maintain his posture as they moved towards the black SUV parked outside. Still, he had a job to do, one in which he had been remiss for the past five days.

“Sit rep,” he said, once his bag was stored and he and May had settled into the front seats.

“Sleep,” May countered, putting the car into drive and smoothly pulling into the Copenhagen traffic. Phil frowned but May continued before he could say a word. “There’s an hour’s drive before we reach the Bus, Jemma’s going to pull you into the laboratory for testing as soon as we arrive, and it’s better for you to hear about Bobbi’s conversation with Victor from Bobbi. Get some rest.”

“May,” Phil’s voice trailed off as emotion swelled in his throat, a consequence of still being so close to his heat. He didn’t know what he would do without her by his side. “Thank you for having my back,” he said, voice thick.

“Always, sir,” May said softly. “I’ll wake you before we get there.”

Phil nodded. Leaning his head against the car window, he let his eyes close.

*

“Coulson.”

Phil opened his eyes, instantly awake. Through the window of the car, he could see the bustling cityscape had given way to rolling fields that stretched out to the horizon. He still felt like he could sleep for a week but the short nap had cleared the cobwebs from his head.

“ETA 10 minutes.”

“Thanks, May,” Phil said, rolling his shoulders and twisting his neck from side to side to work out the kinks. “Anything I should know?”

May was silent a moment. “Bobbi saw you while you were compromised.”

Phil frowned and turned his head. May’s shoulders were tense and her mouth was drawn down at the corners. “What?”

“We lost contact with you on day four.” May’s voice came out in crisp staccato tones. “I had to make a call.”

“What kind of call, May?”

May’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “For continued observation of Clint Barton, it seemed most prudent to have an agent infiltrate the suite and implant a mixture of surveillance devices.” She paused a moment. “Including a camera.”

Foreboding flooded Phil’s gut. He’d never wanted any member of his team to see him in heat, to see him out of control like that. He remembered all too clearly how his friends had treated him differently after the day he presented, the way all the respect he’d generated over the years had been lost once he’d been identified as an omega. He’d lost most of his friends after that heat; the alpha males had been intent on treating him as a potential mate and the rest had dismissed his opinions as insignificant because he was an omega. He’d used college as a clean slate, to build his reputation despite his omega status. He didn’t want to go through that again.

“May,” Phil said, fury coloring his voice, anger twisting his insides. “You had no right - ”

“I had every right,” May interrupted, voice rising in volume. She glanced over at him before turning her attention back to the road. “As your second in command. As your friend. I had every right to protect you and your future interests.”

Phil blinked, momentarily stymied by her last statement. “My future interests? What are you talking about?”

May eased the SUV to a stop. They were in the middle of a gravel road that led to a seemingly abandoned field. There was nothing to see for miles in every direction. Yet, Phil knew that if May was stopping here, the Bus had to be nearby.

She turned to face Phil, the lines of her face taut. “For four days, I watched your back. I listened through that earpiece for any signs of distress or pain. If I’d heard anything of the sort, I would have come to you immediately, no matter what.”

For the first time, Phil noticed the dark circles under May’s eyes, the fatigue in the angle of her shoulders. His anger faded somewhat. “May - ”

“I listened,” May continued in a fierce tone. “And there was one sound I didn’t hear at all. A condom wrapper.”

Phil stared at her. “I’m on suppressants,” he said faintly. “I can’t get pregnant.”

“You’re on experimental suppressants that are designed to prevent you from having a heat,” May clarified. “And they failed.”


	13. Chapter 13

Phil clenched his jaw as the truth of May’s statement hit him. Jemma’s formula was supposed to prevent him from having heats. For some reason, it hadn’t. That meant there was no guarantee the formula’s contraceptive properties were still intact.

May narrowed her eyes. “Phil, it’s not like you to be so careless,” she said. “What’s going on?”

Avoiding her gaze, Phil looked out the window. He wasn’t impulsive by nature. He had backup plans for his backup plans. The Copenhagen mission had been planned to the last detail, every moment meticulously plotted. During the flight, he’d checked and double-checked every aspect, just to make sure he hadn’t missed anything.

He hadn’t. Instead, he’d been handed a wildcard in the form of one Clint Barton.

“We have a mission,” Phil said, choosing not to answer. “This isn’t relevant.”

May turned the engine over. “Your first stop is with Jemma,” she said, voice terse. “It’s relevant.”

Before Phil could protest, May continued, “She tells me that some of the testing she wants to do is time-sensitive, while the pheromone levels are still high in your blood.” 

“Fine,” he said shortly. “Let’s get this over with.”

The rest of the trip was made in silence. A few minutes later, May turned the wheel sharply and the ride became a lot more bumpy as they made their way across the field. Suddenly, in a place where there had been nothing but the night sky, there was movement. An opening appeared, revealing the belly of a plane, seemingly floating in mid-air. May aimed the SUV towards it and they drove up the ramp, which closed behind him once they were inside.

The team was waiting for them when they got out of the SUV.

“Glad to see you’re all right, sir,” Daisy said as soon as she saw him, eyes shining with relief. A chorus of similar sentiments rang out from the group.

Phil nodded. “Thank you everyone,” he said, making sure to look each person in the eye. “We have work to do. Let’s get to it.”

The team scattered, except for Jemma and Fitz. Jemma stepped forward.

“Sir,” she said, “this way, if you would?”

Jemma’s testing seemed to primarily consist of draining Phil of a rather alarming amount of blood.

Phil clenched his fist, causing the veins in his forearms to pop. “Is this really necessary?” he asked as the tenth vial was being drawn three hours later, dark red blood snaking through tubing to drip into a test tube.

“It’s fascinating, really,” Jemma said, looking up from her tablet at Fitz and ignoring Phil completely, as she had been for some time now. “Hormone levels are even higher than those recorded from his pre-suppressant heats.”

“Yes,” Fitz said, drawing the word out as his eyes flitted between a few screens. “Vitals are still elevated as well.”

“Might be the blood loss,” Phil muttered.

“Sir,” Jemma said, acknowledging Phil’s presence for the first time in an hour. “The continued elevation of your hormones suggests the ongoing activation of your sympathetic nervous system.”

“Okay,” Phil said. “Which means?”

“We’re trying to determine the cause since your heat is over,” Jemma said. “Did the alpha leave any trace of his scent or any marks?”

There was no trace of Clint’s scent left on his skin. But the mark he’d left behind still burned on his shoulder.

Phil held her gaze steadily and spoke without inflection. “Yes.”

“Yes, well,” Jemma said, clearing her throat. “That solves that mystery.” She glanced over at Fitz and her voice held a sense of gravity it hadn’t before. “Could you give us a moment?”

“Yeah,” Fitz said, looking between the two of them and picking up on the change in mood. “I’ll just go start the simulations for the new formula.” He nodded at them and disappeared from the lab.

The all-around glass windows made a private discussion almost impossible but as Phil was still attached to monitoring equipment, Jemma made do by making sure that every door was closed and no one was left in the lab before she spoke again.

“I apologize, sir,” Jemma said, remorse coloring her voice. “I was so excited as a scientist that I have been remiss in my role as a medic.” She peered into Phil’s eyes. “Sir, do you require medical attention?”

“I’m fine,” Phil said, voice curt, not wanting to continue that line of questioning.

Jemma looked unconvinced. “We were monitoring you, of course. Well, May was, at least, and she didn’t look happy with the sounds she was hearing.” 

“May never looks happy.”

A glimmer of a smile touched Jemma’s lips. “Well, that being said, I just want to make sure you’re all right. Was there any part of your heat where you didn’t feel safe?” When Phil continued to look stone-faced, Jemma hurriedly added, “It’s just that you hear stories - ”

“He didn’t.” Phil’s voice came out too loudly in the empty lab. He clenched his fist again, the veins in his forearm pressing against his skin in sharp relief. “He didn’t,” he repeated in a quieter voice.

“Okay.” Jemma nodded, convinced enough to at least leave it alone for now, and opened a drawer, setting an all too familiar package in front of Phil. The box was a bright yellow, the color traditionally associated with omegas. “There’s no guarantee that these will work. They’re designed to be taken within 72 hours of intercourse so there’s a chance - ”

“I know, Jemma,” Phil interrupted, eyeing the box. “I know it may not prevent pregnancy after a heat.”

“It’s also best if you stop taking the current formula or any other form of suppressant.”

Phil looked up at that. He’d been taking some form of suppressant ever since his first heat. “Why is that?”

“You have a decision to make, sir,” Jemma said slowly. Phil’s lips tightened and he refused to look at the box sitting on the counter between them. Jemma seemed equally unwilling to glance at it as well. “More than that, scientifically, it would be best if we start with a clean slate, should you decide to continue to be our test subject. I’m thinking that six weeks of no chemicals should be enough.”

“Fine,” Phil said. “Are we done here?”

The last of his blood being collected had flowed through the tubing. Jemma unhooked the test tube vial and placed it with the others. “I’d still like to continue to monitor you,” she started to say before she turned and caught sight of his forbidding expression. “But we can pick this up another time,” she hurriedly added.

Quickly and efficiently, she disconnected him from the monitors and removed the IV from his vein, placing a bandage over the small wound.

Phil unrolled his dress shirt sleeve and smoothed it down over his forearm, buttoning it into place. He shrugged on his jacket and turned to leave the lab.

Jemma’s voice stopped him. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, voice small. “I’m sorry that we failed you.”

Phil closed his eyes. He was letting his emotions get the better of him. This heat had unsettled him - too many variables had been out of his control - but it wasn’t fair to Jemma to take out his unease on her. He wasn’t being a good leader. Turning, he made sure he held Jemma’s gaze. 

“You haven’t failed me or anyone. You and Fitz have done remarkable work here, advancing the research of alpha/beta/omega dynamics by several decades in a few short years,” he said sincerely. “I am so proud of you both.”

Jemma’s smile stretched across her face and she briefly ducked her head. “Thank you, sir,” she said.

Phil nodded and then strode out of the lab towards his office. As he walked, he felt every ache and pain in his body, courtesy of the heat. Even more distracting was a more intimate soreness but he didn’t let on in his expression or gait. The package that Jemma had given him, now in his jacket pocket bumping gently against his hip with every step, weighed heavily on his mind. The label may have said _Choices_ but there was really only one choice for him, wasn't there?

The heat was over. It was time for him to get back to his real life.

Bobbi and May were waiting for him in his office.

“All right,” Phil said, unbuttoning his jacket with one flick of the wrist and settling into his desk chair. “Get me up to speed.”

“Victor wasn’t too happy about the change in plans at first,” Bobbi said, sharing a glance with May, “but I was able to win him over. He confirmed that there have been a number of kidnappings of arms dealers over the past few years.”

“Do we have a motive?”

“There are several options,” Bobbi said, looking down at the tablet in her hand as she tapped it a few times. “I think the most promising involves these two.” She turned it around so that Phil could see.

“Obadiah Stane and Tony Stark,” Phil said, brows drawing together. “Stane is dead and Stark has been out of the arms business for the past five years. Clean energy has been his main venture, last I heard.”

“True,” May replied. “And what sparked his leaving the arms business?”

“He was kidnapped,” Phil said, following their train of thought. “Around that time, we noticed an unusual number of foreign countries using weapons that looked remarkably like Stark’s. Fury even sent me to ask Stane if it was possible that Stark was selling his weapons to foreign leaders to save his own skin. He assured me Stark wasn’t.”

“The official story is that an Army unit, led by Colonel James Rhodes, rescued Stark three months after he was kidnapped,” Bobbi said, retrieving the tablet. “But there are rumors that Stark built a weapon. A weapon so revolutionary that it would change the nature of war forever. He shot his way out of his cage and the Army found him afterwards.”

Phil raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling me about this rumor for a reason. How does this tie in with the more recent kidnappings?”

“There’s been an arms power void ever since Stark went on a one-man crusade to recover his weapons. He’s recalled every single weapon he’s ever put on the market and strong-armed the government into destroying any cache of Stark weapons they come across in the name of global security.” May said. “We think these recent kidnappings are an attempt to try to recreate the weapon that Stark made five years ago.”

“What makes you think that?” Phil asked. “Where would they even start?”

“With this.” Bobbi brought up another picture and turned the tablet around again so Phil could see. “According to Victor, this was found in the cave where Stark was kept.”

It was a picture of blueprints depicting a humanoid shaped metal suit. The design was crude but unmistakably more advanced than anything currently on the market.

“Years ago, this picture was circulated amongst the underground arms dealers,” May said. “We kept tabs on it but no one was able to do much with it. Instead, we had a flood of inferior weapons flood the market after Stark shut down operations.”

“Now someone is trying to control the market entirely,” Phil said. “And they’re willing to kidnap in order to do it.” He looked up at the two of them. “Good work. Bobbi, you’re dismissed. May, a word.”

Bobbi nodded and immediately left the room. The office door closed behind her and Phil stared at it for a long moment.

“I’ve already contacted Fury,” May said as she looked down at the tablet. “We have a meeting as soon as we touch down.” 

“Before I met you at the Academy, I had already been a member of twenty different teams.”

May turned her attention to him, clearly wary of the _non sequitur_. "That's an unusually high number," she said cautiously.

“I would always know who it was,” Phil said. “The one who would ask for me to be transferred. They wouldn’t meet my eyes when they were talking to me. As if they could ignore the fact that I was an omega if they didn’t have to look at me directly, pretend that the scent was just in the air incidentally. The one who avoided being around me whenever they could or having to interact with me in any way.”

A muscle jumped in Phil’s jaw. “It was even worse when it didn’t happen right away. After I had gotten comfortable with the team. I couldn’t always predict what would be the trigger - what would cause them to look at me differently - but there was always one thing that was guaranteed.”

“Phil,” May said softly.

“Did you notice?” Phil asked, voice deceptively calm. “Did you notice how Bobbi wouldn’t look me in the eye?”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so thankful for all of the readers who are following along this story. Every kudos and comment is dearly cherished. 
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving!

May’s eyes were wary as she returned his gaze. “Phil - “ she started to say.

But Phil was done. Anger boiled up inside him, bubbling and hot, until he positively vibrated with it.

“I trusted you,” he growled. “I trusted you to watch my back. I didn’t realize you were waiting for the first opportunity to place a knife in it.”

May stilled. In any other circumstance, Phil would have backed off at that point, recognizing the danger in her stance. But rage blinded him and instead, he stood, towering over May’s slight form.

“You forced me to take the earpiece,” he said, voice tight. “You knew I didn’t want anyone to hear me like that, to see me like that, and then you sent in Bobbi anyway?”

His hands clenched. “How is that being my second in command? How is that being my friend?”

May’s face was completely devoid of expression. She didn’t respond to Phil, only lifting her hand to her ear to press her earpiece. “Daisy,” she said, voice without any inflection, “bring in the profile on Barton.”

Phil only just managed to swallow a snarl. He turned away from the door to his office and crossed his arms, struggling to contain his emotions. May knew that he had a soft spot for Daisy, an affection for her that went beyond just being his protege. She was deliberately using that knowledge against him to force him to calm down but it only fed his anger, making him clench his jaw in fury. Still, he didn’t want to take his emotions out on Daisy so he kept his body facing away as he heard her enter, even when her steps faltered when he didn’t turn around.

“Okay,” Daisy said, drawing out the word, uncertainty in her voice. “I have the profile on Barton.”

“Read it out loud,” May instructed.

Phil heard the rustle of paper. “Ugh, analog,” Daisy said under her breath, before speaking up in a louder tone. “Clinton Francis Barton, born January 7, 1989, in Waverly, Iowa. Son of Harold and Edith Barton. Younger brother of Charles Bernard Barton.”

Despite himself, Phil found himself straining to hear Daisy’s next words, eager to hear more about the alpha he’d been intimate with and yet knew nothing about.

“Family business was a farm and butcher shop. By all accounts, Harold and Edith were generally well-liked at first but after the Barton boys were born, Harold developed a drinking problem.” He heard the rustle of paper again. “I found medical records from multiple urgent care facilities, emergency rooms, and hospitals in the surrounding area. Most of them are for Edith but there are a few for the kids as well.”

Phil felt himself still, his body grow cold.

“Injuries.” His voice was a dangerous hiss, anger surging within him again, and Daisy didn’t pretend to misunderstand what he wanted to know.

“The oldest boy seemed to get the worse of it but Clinton had his hearing damaged very badly, enough that his mother had to enroll him in ASL and lip-reading classes.” Daisy sounded world-weary and unsurprised at the horrors parents could inflict on their children. Knowing what he knew of her history, Phil understood the reason for her tone. “It seems that his hearing improved over time and he didn’t even need hearing aids after a while.”

Daisy continued quickly, as if wanting to get past the details as quickly as possible. “The rest were joint dislocations and bruises. As I said, the oldest brother got the worst of it. It stopped when the parents ended up dying in a car crash when they were 6 and 9 years old, most likely due to his father’s drunk driving.”

Phil let out a silent breath, willing the tension to fade from his clenched jaw, the murderous feeling to go away. He told himself that he would feel this way about anyone who had been abused but if he were being truly honest with himself, he knew in his gut that the feeling wouldn’t have this much depth to it.

“The boys were shuttled around foster homes for the next seven years and then, they disappeared.”

Phil turned around at that, eyebrows arching upwards, surprise keeping his anger at bay for the moment. “What do you mean, they disappeared?”

There was a worry line on Daisy’s forehead that quickly smoothed when Phil turned around, relief flaring in her eyes as she took in his inquisitive expression. “It seems that they ran away from their last foster home when Clinton was 13. I can’t find another mention of him until five years ago when he opened up a range with Buck Chisholm. A couple of years later, he was smashing archery records and on the fast track for the Olympics.”

May’s face was still free from expression although her eyes were sharp as she watched Phil carefully.

“Five years ago,” Phil repeated slowly. Realization was dawning inside of him, a terrible feeling growing in the pit of his gut. “Daisy, are you sure about this?”

Daisy shrugged her shoulders. “I’ll keep looking, of course, but this was in the early days of the internet. It was a lot easier to disappear then.”

Phil looked at May then and the last of his anger left him completely. He felt embarrassed suddenly at the way he acted towards one of his oldest friends, the distrust he displayed in the face of an unanticipated complication. May took a step forward.

“Abusive childhood. Unaccounted for time in his history. Unparalleled skill in archery. And the young age would explain the height discrepancy.”

“A growth spurt.” Phil closed his eyes briefly, an acidic feeling coating the back of his tongue. But his brain kept working, connecting the dots that Daisy had unknowingly provided. “He would have been young when he started. He would have had a mentor to guide him.”

“There’s Buck Chisholm,” May said. “Bobbi heard him on the phone with him and confirmed that they seemed to have that kind of relationship.”

Daisy was looking back and forth between them, confusion evident by the deepened crease in her brow. “Okay, I think I’m missing the other half of a conversation here.”

“Five years ago, Tony Stark was kidnapped,” Phil said. As he spoke, he reclaimed his seat in his desk chair, needing the extra support, the solidity of his desk underneath his hands. Daisy joined him in sitting down but May characteristically remained standing. “Before that, he was known as the Merchant of Death. His weapons were always the most advanced and lethal ones out on the market.”

“I remember,” Daisy murmured. “Didn’t he shut down his weapons division after that?”

Phil nodded approvingly and a small smile touched Daisy’s lips in response, embarrassed pride crossing her face at the unspoken praise. “He also recalled all of his weapons and tried to destroy as many as he could find.”

“Why?”

“He discovered something that we’ve known all along,” Phil said. “Although Stark was selling his weapons to allied countries to protect the free world, they didn’t always stay there. His weapons were also being used in war-torn countries by the despots in power and they were deadly efficient at keeping the populaces down.”

“How could he not have known?” Daisy asked incredulously. “That’s the kind of thing that the Red Tide broadcasts all the time and we’re not even in the weapons business.”

“There’s a difference between knowing and seeing,” May said pointedly. Although her gaze remained on Daisy, Phil felt again a hot rush of shame at how badly he’d just treated her. “We think he was confronted with the reality of what his weapons were being used for while he was kidnapped.”

“The recall of his weapons left a power void,” Phil said, “and into that void stepped assassins.”

Daisy’s eyebrows shot upwards. “Assassins?” she positively squeaked.

“Soldiers of fortune. Mercenaries. Guns for hire,” said Phil. “Different names for what amounts to the same thing, assassins have always been a part of our history.” He paused a moment, needing a second to collect his thoughts even though the truth, the obvious conclusion, was readily apparent. “There were two that were considered the best. One has been operating for decades and has been almost untraceable. The other used a bow and arrow and was reported to never miss their target. We thought they would become more active but instead, they both abruptly disappeared five years ago.”

Daisy’s eyes were wide as she looked back and forth between Phil and May. “So you think - ?” she let the question trail off but May didn’t let Phil off the hook so easily.

May’s eyes were hard as she looked at Phil. “Barton fits the profile perfectly for the archer assassin.”

*

Phil let himself into his quarters and finally allowed his shoulders to slump. He peeled off his suit, placing it on the back of an armchair for the moment, and pulled on his pajama bottoms and an old, worn T-shirt. The stutter-stop of his thoughts revealed his level of exhaustion but he couldn’t relax enough to chase sleep just yet. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he quietly took in his surroundings.

The Bus was his home away from home and he knew every inch of the aircraft intimately, having been directly involved in the design. His quarters were his sanctuary from the rest of the space, a way for him to remind himself of who he was. His suits filled the closet. A few of his less valuable but still sentimental collectibles were on some of the shelves, the rest filled with case files and reference material. Much of their mission information was digital, for better communication between them and the home office, but Phil had never lost the habit of keeping paper files for more sensitive information. The practice had become particularly relevant after he’d recruited a hacker to their team in the form of Daisy Johnson and learned just how easily digital information could be obtained.

Clint Barton.

Despite what he now knew about Clint, despite everything that had been revealed about him today, he couldn’t ignore the flare of desire deep within him just at the very thought of the archer. With every coupling during his heat, Clint had matched him thrust for thrust, never seeming to tire, willing to cede control so that Phil could maintain his dignity. And when he’d succumbed to his omega instincts at last, when the heat had dissolved into flashes of sensation and sounds, hazy images that Phil wasn’t sure were real or not, one thing stood out from all the rest.

Clint had made him feel safe.

Phil let his head fall forward as he blew out a harsh breath, thoughts in turmoil. Olympic hopeful or archer assassin? The man he had spent his heat with had been kind and attentive, putting his own needs to the side in favor of catering to Phil’s. Not all alphas treated a heat-gone omega with such regard. Jemma was right; there were stories.

But Phil was a spy. He knew all about compartmentalization. Being kind didn’t mean that you couldn’t kill. 

His hands gripped the edge of the bed so tightly that the knuckles blanched white. Eight unaccounted for years in Clint’s history. It was long enough. Long enough for an apprenticeship. Long enough for him to develop the kind of skill that broke records. Or killed scores of targets.

Another wave of exhaustion swept over him but nervous energy still hummed beneath his skin. He needed something to do, something to distract him from his circling thoughts. Clint Barton wasn’t a problem that he could solve tonight and his body was crying out for rest. Phil’s eyes landed on the suit still draped over the back of his armchair and he got to his feet, seizing onto the simple task of hanging it up properly.

His pants were folded with exacting care, retaining the sharp creases that had been pressed into the fabric. The routine task was exactly what he needed, the familiar motions soothing the ragged edges of his mind. The pants were clipped to a wooden hanger in his closet, creases perfectly straight. His dress shirt was folded and placed into his half full laundry bag, ready to be taken to the dry cleaners the next time they landed. His tie was returned to its rightful spot on his tie rack, completing his collection once more. Phil reached for his slightly rumpled suit jacket and gave it a good shake, letting the fabric fall to its natural resting state.

A yellow box fell out of the pocket. Phil stared down at it, arms still outstretched, frozen in place. The label, _Choices_ , loomed large in his vision.

Acid suddenly burned at the back of his throat and he barely made it to his toilet in time, bringing up the meager contents of his stomach, mostly water and the few digested remnants of a protein bar. Dry heaves made his abdominal muscles ache, and when he was finished, he slumped against the cool wall opposite his toilet, legs sprawled out in front of him. Without thinking, he spread the fingers of his hand across the sore muscles.

His breath stopped in his lungs. For a moment, the only sound in the bathroom was the soft plink of water hitting the porcelain sink from the slow drip of his perpetually leaky faucet. The heat from his hand seeped through the thin cotton of his T-shirt, making him all too aware of his abdomen underneath.

What had he done?


	15. Chapter 15

Phil watched as the clock ticked over from 5:59 am to 6:00 am with bleary-eyed yet grim determination. Reaching over, he turned off the alarm after it had only let out one ear-piercing shriek and pushed himself up with a stifled groan. His body still ached after five days of almost nonstop movement, muscles he hadn’t known existed making themselves apparent, but he blew out a long breath and continued his forward momentum, getting out of bed and heading towards the bathroom, exhaustion weighing down his limbs.

One more sleepless night was something he hadn’t needed after being driven hard by his heat, pushing him to seek out Clint, yearning for his hard knot to breach him once more. Phil’s lips involuntarily parted as he remembered Clint surging inside him, pulling sounds from his throat that he hadn’t thought were possible. He could feel his heart speed up as he remembered large hands gripping his waist, Clint encouraging him with dark eyes and soft murmurs spilling from his lips.

Phil savagely twisted the shower knob, muscles stiffening with shock as the icy spray blasted his skin, and pushed the memories away. He couldn’t think about Clint right now, didn’t want to feel the lingering imprint of his touch. Phil didn’t bother to make the water any warmer, hoping it would also help him shake off the fatigue clinging to him. But it was no use; his skin only turned numb and faintly blue and he still felt a heaviness slowing his movements. He finished washing up with a sigh, shivering slightly as he turned off the freezing water in relief.

Stepping out of the shower, Phil caught sight of the bruise that still marred his shoulder. Another memory flashed through his mind - teeth sunk deep in his shoulder as he moaned his release - and he quickly averted his eyes. After briskly drying himself off, he slung a towel around his waist, tucking the free end in place as he walked to his closet. A row of freshly pressed suits greeted him when he slid the door open, varying shades of black and grey and navy, different styles and fits depending on whether the mission called for him to play the unassuming everyday man or intimidating government suit.

He chose a rather severe looking black suit, one he normally only wore when he wanted to have the upper hand without saying a single word. He felt unusually unsettled, a certain yellow box haunting his thoughts, try as he might to keep it in the back in his mind similar to the way he’d shoved the actual box to the back of his medicine cabinet late last night. Yet, he needed to focus; the meeting with Fury once they touched down would take up most of the rest of his day and he had to be prepared. Much of it would be devoted to dealing with the Stark situation, his reason for traveling to Copenhagen in the first place, but he had no doubt that Fury would want an explanation for him succumbing to his heat while on a mission, not to mention the possibility of Clint being the archer assassin. 

As he pulled the fitted suit onto his body, his nerves began to settle somewhat, the breath in his lungs becoming easier to move in and out. He let the persona of Phil Coulson, Director of SHIELD, cloak his turmoil much like his suit jacket served to mask the arsenal he carried at all times. With a final flick of his fingers, his jacket was fastened and Phil regarded his reflection in a full length mirror. His hair was thinning more than he would like and his blue eyes were bracketed by the familiar laugh lines spreading from the outer corners. Laughter was far from his thoughts at the moment; in fact, there was a slight deepening of the furrow between his brows and a downturn to the corners of his mouth. Overall, however, he didn’t look much different than any other day. Satisfied, he made his way out of his sleeping quarters and strode towards the eating area of the Bus. He was looking forward to his morning cup of joe, the one constant in his life that never let him down. He didn’t care if it was primo roasted coffee beans or the burnt dregs from a diner, coffee never failed to put him in a better mood, even temporarily.

He murmured a greeting to the few agents already seated in the eating area but his gaze was focused on the steam rising from the freshly brewed roast, dark and strong the way he liked it. His agents knew him well enough to know not to get in between him and that first cup so he headed straight towards it, not expecting anything to deter him from the carafe of black gold sitting on the burner.

Except Jemma’s voice rang out, “Sir, no!”

Phil paused. His hand was already curled around the handle, arm poised to lift the heavy carafe. The heat of the brewed coffee warmed the backs of his fingers. He was so close to achieving his goal but Jemma was hurrying over to his side, thick brows drawn together with worry.

“Sir,” she said, voice gentle yet loud enough to carry over to the other people in the kitchen and eating area. “No chemicals for six weeks, remember?”

Jemma’s eyes were imploring, her eyebrows raised slightly, as she spoke. And then for a brief moment, her gaze dropped downwards to his midsection before meeting his once more.

A muscle jumped in Phil’s jaw and his mood plummeted. “Right,” he said after a moment, only realizing once he had spoken how rough his voice was from lack of sleep. He cleared his throat and his next words sounded clearer. “Thank you, Jemma.”

She gently tugged his hand away from the carafe, which required some effort as he was reluctant to let go, and then patted it consolingly, sympathy apparent in her warm brown eyes, before heading back towards her seat.

Phil cast his eyes around the room. Conversation had temporarily ceased with Jemma’s shout but had quickly resumed once it had been determined that no danger was present. Original quest thwarted and with no desire to make small talk, he grabbed a protein bar and apple and started to make his way back to his office. As he left, he spotted Bobbi rounding the corner of the hallway and heading towards him, the click of her booted heels accompanying every strong step.

“Agent Morse,” Phil said, nodding his head as he neared her.

“Sir,” she said respectfully enough but her eyes were fixed at a point near his ear as she passed him by.

A surge of anger went through Phil but he quickly tamped it down. He would deal with Bobbi later, at a time when his emotions weren’t so raw. Right now, only one day after heat and without caffeine in his system, he was too on edge to be able to handle the situation in a way that wouldn’t cause repercussions. Bobbi was a good agent; he wanted to do everything that he could to keep her on the team. Even though he hadn’t had much success in the past, he hoped that he would be able to talk to her so that they could work past whatever misgivings she suddenly had.

But if she couldn’t work with him because he was an omega, he would not hesitate to remove her from the team as soon as possible. He had worked too long on SHIELD to let one bad seed destroy them now.

As soon as he entered his office, his eyes were immediately drawn to the file on his desk. He hadn’t been able to read it even after Daisy left, his emotions too stirred up for him to be able to concentrate on the words. Now fatigue weighed him down but there was nothing to it; he had to know everything that was in the file before his meeting with Fury in a few hours. Sitting down at his desk, he pulled the folder towards him, determined not to let his feelings get in the way of him doing his job.

Opening it, an old photograph was the first item on top of the stack of papers. A redheaded man and blonde woman standing with two boys outside of a farmhouse, the older one with the same red hair as his father while the younger one shared his mom’s coloring with a shock of blonde hair. It was an idyllic scene - the sun shone on what looked like a warm summer day and all four were smiling - and a sharp contrast to what he found in the rest of the file: hospital records of abuse for the mother and two children spanning over years, otolaryngology reports of the initial hearing damage Clint suffered and the slow improvement over time, a concerned letter from a teacher about the bruises the Barton brothers had and Clint’s reluctance to learn ASL. There was even a one-time visit to a psychiatrist after Clint’s initial injury with no follow-up visits recorded.

The reports from the social workers after the Barton parents’ demise weren’t much better. There were numerous disciplinary infractions at school and the boys were shuttled between foster homes for rude behavior, refusal to follow the rules, and sneaking out. The last social worker report in the file included a short interview with one of the nuns who oversaw the Catholic orphanage the boys ran away from the night before they were due to go to a new foster home.

_Trouble seemed to find them wherever they went, as if the devil himself dogged their footsteps. We weren’t able to get through to them here but I hope that those two lost souls eventually find their way._

All in all, the file painted a grim picture of Clint’s early life. Yet, Clint was a model citizen now according to the rest of the file. He and Buck Chisholm opened up a driving range five years ago that was doing well with lessons geared towards both children and adults. All of their testimonials were positive with parents in particular praising Clint’s patience with children. When he started competing, his unconventional archery stance was criticized but his string of breaking archery records was not. It seemed that Clint typically stayed out of the limelight but the few interviews he did showed him to have an appealing mixture of humility and joking bravado.

Phil frowned. It felt like he was reading a file about two different people. The kind of an adult a child like the one depicted in the first part of the file would become didn’t match the Clint Barton he’d met. He needed more information about his life and the people around him.

Pressing a button, Phil spoke into the intercom. “Daisy.”

“Yes, boss?” came the chipper response.

“I need a full profile on Buck Chisholm. We need to know more about the man Clint calls his coach.”

“Sure thing.” He heard the tapping of her fingers on her laptop computer. “I’m also still working on getting more info on Clint Barton but I can send you the feed from the camera we’ve collected so far.”

“Right,” Phil said. He hadn’t forgotten about the video camera May had ordered to be planted in the hotel room and was still trying to figure out how to talk to her about it. “Thanks.”

“Sending it over now.”

Phil hovered the mouse over the file that popped up on his computer screen for a moment before double-clicking it with resolve, ignoring the spike of apprehension in his gut. His meeting with Fury was in less than an hour. His personal feelings about seeing Clint again were irrelevant; he needed to know everything he could.

The video player automatically started playing once the file opened. He heard Bobbi’s voice saying, “Leaving,” with a Dutch accent but the video feed remained black. Frowning, Phil pressed the fast-forward button; it was more than 24 hours later on the feed before the first video frame appeared, showing Clint standing in the entryway to the bedroom and looking towards the hotel suite door. The camera appeared to be one of Fitz’s creations, offering multiple views of the hotel suite using 3D reconstruction technology in stunning quality. His eyes were drawn to the defined ridges of Clint’s abs underneath the tight T-shirt he wore and the edge of his hip bone, revealed by the low-slung pajama pants barely held in place by a frayed drawstring.

Phil paused the video, mouth dry and heart suddenly beating faster. This feed contained the last 24 hours of his heat. It was a time that he didn’t remember in clear detail but one thing stood out from the haze; he knew that this was when he received the bruise that still darkened his shoulder.

He activated the intercom again. “Daisy,” Phil said with a touch of impatience in his voice. “For a proper analysis, I need all the data we’ve collected. Where are the first 24 hours of the video from the feed?”

“There isn’t any,” Daisy said, sounding puzzled. “We were ordered to only activate the video recording capabilities of the camera after May extracted you.”


	16. Chapter 16

Phil stared at the frozen image of Clint on the screen, at his tousled blond hair and blue eyes, his sculpted physique highlighted by his sleep clothes. Clint’s face looked soft and vulnerable as he looked towards the door of the hotel suite where Phil and May must have just exited moments before. His expression was open and exposed, exactly what Phil had feared being when May asked him to wear an earpiece.

Daisy’s voice was hesitant when she spoke again. “I thought May told you. What you and Barton did - “ She faltered once and then continued with resolve. “Your heat should have been private. Just between you and and your alpha.”

He ignored the low swoop in his belly at the implication that Clint could be his alpha. He and Clint were clearly compatible and it was just his biology reacting to the tail end of his heat, nothing more than that.

“I agree with May. We need the video surveillance of Barton until we know who he really is,” said Daisy. “But I figured I’d leave it up to you whether you wanted to delete the audio we collected first from the camera. This is the only copy. And nobody besides May has listened to it.” 

It took Phil a moment to respond. “Thank you, Daisy,” he said quietly into the intercom.

“You’re welcome, sir.”

Slowly, Phil moved the mouse until it hovered over the rewind button on the video player. It was all data, he told himself as he rewound the recording to the beginning. He just needed more information.

_Leaving._

The sound of Bobbi’s scared Dutch-accented voice came through the speakers again. The fear in her voice sounded real and listening to the low, menacing growl that immediately followed, Phil could understand why. It made the little hairs on the back of his neck stand up, a tingle shoot down his spine.

_Oh._

_I need -_

A muscle jumped in Phil’s jaw at the wonder in his own voice and Clint’s moan afterwards. The blank screen seemed almost mocking to him now. What had he done to cause such a sound?

His answering recorded sigh was barely picked up by the camera. 

_I need you._

Phil sucked in a breath at the words, his hand clenching into a fist. Anger, hot and familiar, simmered underneath his skin. He didn’t need an alpha. He didn’t need Clint.

_Phil?_

The anger dissipated from Phil’s body, tension leaching from his limbs. He unconsciously leaned forward, trying to figure out the tone in Clint’s voice.

_Phil._

Clint sounded...relieved. But why?

_Phil, I’ll take care of you._

His voice was quiet but the sincerity was unmistakeable.

_I know what you need._

_We’re going to do this slow, just like you want it._

Phil blew out a long breath, listening intently at the sound of the bed creaking under the shifting movements of their combined weight.

_Clint._

The naked hunger in his own recorded voice took Phil off guard, the throaty moans that followed making him shift uneasily in his chair.

 _Fuck, Phil,_ **stay still**.

Phil immediately froze at the absolute authority in Clint’s tone, lips parting slightly at the low, desperate moan in his own voice that sounded through the speaker moments afterwards. The slight creak of the bedsprings with their movements, Clint’s grunts and groans, his own moans: the sounds were going straight to his cock, making it fill and lengthen, causing his pants to tighten uncomfortably. 

He shifted again in his chair, trying to relieve the pressure. There was nothing here that he could use to understand Clint; it was only his own voyeuristic curiosity driving him to continue to listen. He reached for the mouse, intending to fast forward, when he was arrested by Clint’s voice sounding again through the speakers.

_God, Phil. You feel amazing._

A stuttered groan made Phil’s cock twitch. 

_I never want to stop. Do you hear me, Phil? Never._

_You and me. Just like this. Me, deep inside of you. You -_ Clint’s voice sounded slightly strangled, as if spoken through clenched teeth. _Tight around me. Just like that, Phil. Yeah, just like that._

 _Slow at the end, huh?_ Clint grunted and Phil’s recorded voice sounded a moan in response to whatever he’d done. _I don’t want this to end. I’ve never met anyone like you. Never felt anything like this._

_I want to keep going. I want to keep you. In my arms. On my cock. On my knot._

There was audible panting between Clint’s words now while Phil’s own groans were becoming increasingly desperate.

_Tell me you want that too. Tell me you want my knot. Tell me you want me, Phil._

_Tell me you want me as much as I want you._

_Tell me, Phil. Please._

“Clint,” Phil whispered just as his recorded counterpart groaned the same. His cock was pressed against the front of his suit pants, straining the fabric. He’d spent years learning how to control his emotions and yet he felt flushed and unsettled, thoughts scattered in his mind.

_Clint!_

The squeak of the bedsprings sped up. It was hard to distinguish their voices from each other now, to figure out who was panting yes and who was moaning. A passionate shout rent the air and Phil recognized it as his own, his cock leaping in remembered ecstasy, the pleasure that coursed through him when Clint’s teeth sunk deep. Phil’s finger slammed down on the space bar of the keyboard, pausing the video. Leaning back in his chair, he willed his heart to calm, his breaths to slow, his cock to soften. He was all too aware of the still tender mark on his shoulder, throbbing slightly in time with his rapid pulse.

It meant nothing. Clint’s words meant nothing. Heat-driven and lust-filled, Clint probably had no idea what he’d been saying. He didn’t know Phil. If he did, he would most likely be singing a different tune.

May’s voice sounded over the plane’s PA system, startling Phil from his thoughts. “Touching down in five.”

Briefly, Phil covered his face with his hands. He needed to pull it together. His scent had deepened while listening to the recording, a fact that would certainly draw more attention to him than he wanted or needed. Taking deep breaths, Phil concentrated on getting his pheromones under control. It took several minutes but his scent finally lessened in intensity. Rising from his desk, Phil crossed over to a cabinet and removed a spray bottle. The pheromone eraser inside would help to mask his scent but it could only do so much. He would have to make sure he kept control while at headquarters.

The seatbelt light came on and Phil hurriedly sprayed himself with the pheromone eraser before strapping himself for landing. Within minutes, the Bus touched down and Phil unbuckled the belt, heading towards the common area to address his team. He paused in the doorway, taking a brief moment to watch them before they noticed his presence.

Daisy was sitting cross-legged on the couch, laptop balanced on her knees and headphones snug over her ears. Her eyes were intent on the screen and her fingers were flying across the keyboard. Fitz and Jemma were bickering over something on a tablet display, voices tumbling over each other in the half-finished sentences that comprised their own practically incomprehensible language. Bobbi and Mack were talking quietly in one corner while Hunter glared at them, arms crossed.

Bobbi noticed him first, eyes flickering briefly towards him and then immediately away. Mack looked up then, a serious, considering look in his eyes before he said something to Bobbi in a low voice. Hunter clenched his jaw as he continued to glare at them.

Phil mentally revised the timeframe in which he’d planned to give Bobbi time to come to terms with whatever misgivings she suddenly had about him. If she was talking to other members of the team - if she was in any way spreading dissension in the ranks - then she needed to be dealt with immediately.

May entered from the direction of the cockpit which prompted Phil to move inside the room as well. He would need to talk to her soon but her mouth was drawn into a hard line, which he knew from experience meant that she was still pissed. They would definitely work it out later but for now, it would be best to leave her alone and focus on the job at hand.

Phil cleared his throat and everyone looked his way, Daisy slipping off her headphones as she did so.

“I suspect that Fury will have a new assignment for us after our meeting. Make sure the Bus is properly supplied and ready to take off. If there’s anything you need to take care of, get it done quickly.” Phil looked around, taking in everyone’s expressions. “Let’s move out.”

May fell into step by his side as they exited the plane through the cargo hold into the CIA headquarters hangar. A crew was already milling around the aircraft, doing the required mechanical and electrical safety checks. Mack had followed them as far as the cargo hold and Phil could hear him issuing orders to waiting personnel to start restocking the plane. Phil and May flashed their badges when they reached the door that led to the interior of headquarters, the electronic lock flashing green as it registered their authorized access.

Phil nodded his head to a couple of agents that he recognized as they strode down the halls. It had only been three years since he and May had gone into the private sector to form SHIELD and they had been to headquarters numerous times since; many of their former colleagues were still actively climbing the ranks of the CIA. There was a part of him that wondered what his life would have been like if he hadn’t felt hamstrung by bureaucracy, if he’d continued his admittedly accelerated upward track through the ranks of the CIA, spurred by his own driving need to succeed, his thirst to see justice done.

May spoke without inflection, breaking the train of his thoughts. “Our meeting with Fury isn’t for another hour.”

Phil glanced sidelong at her. Her face could have been carved out of granite for all the expression it held. “I have some things to take care of in my office,” he replied. “I’ll see you there.”

May nodded and turned right down the next corridor junction, leaving Phil to walk alone the rest of the way to his office.

It was just as he left it, not that he actually expected it to have been disturbed in his absence. There was nothing particularly special about it besides the plaque on the door with his name and the mug with the distinctive Captain America shield on the corner of his desk, but it was his. Sitting down at the computer, he spent some time catching up on the emails he’d missed during his heat. Most were administrative announcements that didn’t require reply. A few emails were from current agents; as part of his role as the director of SHIELD, he was sometimes asked to be a consultant for active CIA missions. He took his time composing his responses, making sure to re-familiarize himself with the details of each mission before sending off his reply.

He was in the middle of one such response when a figure darkened his doorway. Phil caught an alpha scent, intimately familiar. He clenched his jaw but continued working, finishing up the email with a request for more information about the proposed meeting location including more recent satellite photos and expected weather patterns in the coming months. The person waited until he was finished, not moving until Phil looked up to meet his gaze.

Blue eyes met his, set in the handsome, likable face of a man about Phil’s age. The man’s mouth spread in a wide smile. “Phil,” he said in a warm voice.

“Garrett.” Phil replied shortly, turning away from his computer to face his visitor fully.

“Oof,” Garrett said in a mock hurt tone, moving into the room and settling easily into one of the chairs opposite Phil on the other side of his desk, undeterred by the unwelcoming expression on Phil’s face. “Are we not on a first name basis anymore? I remember when you used to call me John.”

Phil refused to let Garrett get to him. They didn’t have that kind of relationship anymore. “What do you want?”

“Relax,” Garrett said, briefly holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m here on business.” He settled more comfortably into his chair and Phil resisted the urge to clench his jaw again in annoyance. “I’ve got a Specialist who would benefit from being in a team. He’s been a lone wolf for too long now.” 

Phil narrowed his eyes. “I choose my team.”

“Fury seems to think your team needs a sharpshooter,” Garrett said. The corner of his mouth quirked in obvious amusement. “I know you’ve got a meeting with him soon. Why don’t you take it up with him?”

“I’ll do that.” Phil had purposefully put a note of finality in his voice but Garrett didn’t move. He waited a beat before speaking again. “Is there something else you want?”

“Actually,” Garrett gave him an unmistakable lazy once-over, his alpha scent deepening, “yes.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for both your patience and encouraging comments. I had to spend some time dealing with important real life stuff and completely revising the plot of _Overdrawn_ to make it tighter and much more engaging. As usual, I can't promise when updates will occur but I hope they will be more frequent now.
> 
> I am amazed and humbled that so many of you want to follow this story. Please enjoy the ride.
> 
>  **ETA** : As hinted in the previous chapter, Garrett and Phil have a sexual history that's discussed in this chapter. Phil's past relationship with Garrett and Clint's past relationship with Laura will be used throughout the story to demonstrate some aspects of the ABO society that I can't do with Phil and Clint's relationship alone. I understand if those pairings are not your cup of tea but I hope you'll give the story a chance.

Garrett only let the scent linger long enough to make his point clear and then let it dissipate, preventing it from permeating any fabrics in the room. 

“Do you remember our last mission together?” A slow smile spread across Garrett’s face and he let out a brief chuckle. His blue eyes sparkled with remembered mischief. “I dropped down through the skylight, used up my whole mag, and hit the final guy in the chest with a flare gun. The look on his face - ” 

Phil snorted and shook his head, returning the smile in spite of himself. “You didn’t go through the skylight.”

“Yeah, I know, but it makes for a better story.” Garrett leaned forward, gaze darkening and boring into Phil’s own. “Don’t you remember the adrenaline rush? That spark of electricity underneath your skin? How alive we felt afterwards?” His smile became more intimate and his voice lowered. “I remember how wild you were. You practically tore my clothes off.”

He did remember. The way they’d looked at each other when the mission was over. The mad scramble back to the safe house. Garrett had barely finished checking in before they had been on top of each other, stripping down to bare skin. It had been hard and fast and so good in the aftermath of that clusterfuck of a mission.

Phil laced his fingers together on top of the desk. The come-on and reminiscing about old times was expected; Garrett flirted with him every time they saw each other. It was the fact that Garrett had intentionally made his alpha scent stronger first that was giving Phil pause. Given that a strong pheromone scent was considered impolite in public, all designations were taught how to keep their pheromone levels under control. Scents could involuntarily became stronger - usually during extreme emotional states - but there were only a few cases in which one would deepen it intentionally.

“Garrett,” Phil said slowly, “what is this?”

Garrett leaned back in his chair and studied Phil for a moment. “I keep thinking about that night,” he replied, voice still low. “About what might have been if you hadn’t switched to a different team.”

“That was a long time ago,” Phil said after a pause, forming his words carefully. He had never understood what Garrett hoped to accomplish with dredging up old times; they hadn’t been intimate in years and it had always seemed like unnecessary diversions that made their conversations last longer than they should, eating up Phil’s limited time.

“Not that long ago,” Garrett countered immediately before his lips turned upwards in a rueful grin. He shook his head. “Look, I probably shouldn’t have brought this up right now. I’m about to head out on a mission and I’m not entirely sure when I’m going to get back.” He paused a moment. “But when I do, maybe we could grab a drink? Or maybe even dinner?”

There was a cautious hope in his pale blue eyes that made Phil think twice about Garrett’s offer. Had he been overly dismissive over the years of Garrett’s flirting? Was there something there that he’d missed?

There was a shared history between them. Garrett had been trained in Operations while Phil had studied Communications but under the watchful eye of Fury, they had both honed their skills. To this day, Phil wasn’t sure if being the only non-betas on the team had played a role, but they had been thick as thieves, anticipating each other’s next moves and indulging in friendly banter during the cake run missions they’d started out doing to lighten the tension. In a matter of months, their teasing repartees had become more suggestive, peppered with subtle double entendres. It had all been in good fun, Phil had thought, until the first time they had been alone in a safe house with no evac until the morning; the tension building between them had found release in the form of reciprocal handjobs and mutually spectacular orgasms.

They had hardly been the only ones going at it. The CIA liked to recruit young men and women straight out of college and sometimes even high school if they were gifted enough. Long days and close quarters meant junior agents were hard pressed to find that kind of release from anyone other than other agents; relationships with civilians tended to die swift deaths after recruitment. Strictly speaking, it was against policy but as long as the work got done, supervising officers tended to turn a blind eye.

And so Fury had. Handjobs had turned into skillful blowjobs, Garrett showing that his mouth was just as clever as his quips. Fucking had been inevitable, Phil using all of his training to keep his pheromone levels in check during debriefing after their first real mission and then wet for it as soon as he hit quarters. Garrett screwing him into the mattress had been a perfect end to that day, Phil panting out his release into the regulation bedsheets as Garrett’s knot swelled within him.

They were certainly compatible. Garrett’s knot hadn’t been the first he’d taken but it had been the biggest and the moans Garrett had pulled from his throat had shocked Phil at first, so used to being relatively quiet during sex. The way they could anticipate each other’s needs in the field translated well to the bedroom and Garrett seemed to always know exactly how to get Phil off best. It had ended when Phil had begun team-hopping, one beta after another eventually getting frustrated with Phil’s natural leadership skills despite his omega status, forcing Phil to switch teams in order to keep the peace. He’d chosen to keep his distance from Garrett and any other alpha to further reduce complications, instead dating beta women when the opportunity arose, the same type of women he’d dated in college before being recruited.

Before this past week, it had been a long time since he’d let himself be knotted. Was that why he’d offered himself to Clint on the plane? That impulsive act was one he was going to have to explain in the next hour and Phil still didn’t really have a clue as to why he’d done it. All he knew was that he’d looked into Clint’s gorgeous blue eyes, smelled his scent, and had felt something stir within him. He hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away from the door of the respite room after the flight attendants had sequestered Clint’s unconscious body there; the thought of that alpha going through rut alone or sedated had been a surprisingly unbearable one and he’d found himself out of his seat and speaking to the redheaded flight attendant before long. After all these years, he’d thought he’d had the urges of his biology under control and yet, he’d wanted Clint with an intensity that had been disconcerting.

The idea that the Traditionalists might be even partially right - that an omega’s biological drive to breed will lead them to seek out an alpha no matter what - rankled. Old, familiar anger surged within Phil and he spoke before thinking.

“If you want to fuck,” Phil said in a pleasant tone at odds with his harsh words, “you could just say so. It’s not as if we haven’t done it before.”

Garrett looked taken aback and Phil immediately regretted snapping at him. Was Garrett truly being sincere? If so, Phil had almost taken his head off for it. Heat hormones were obviously still wreaking havoc with his body and mind; he needed to be more mindful before he spoke in Fury’s meeting later.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Garrett said slowly, “that is definitely something that I want. But I was hoping for something else a little more.”

Phil remained silent, unsure of what to say.

Garrett rose from the chair. “Think about it, will you?” he asked, eyes earnest even as he straightened his jacket in a nervous habit Phil recognized from their teammate days. “I’ve got to catch my flight. Maybe we can talk when I get back.”

Phil hesitated briefly before nodding, not trusting himself to speak again. Garrett flashed him another smile and left the room.

A potential date with John Garrett. He had to admit that the idea wasn't entirely unwelcome, although there was a nervous flutter in his belly at what Garrett could mean by “a little more.” They'd certainly had good times in the past and the reasons for Phil to keep his distance were nonexistent now. 

Phil noted the time and firmly put the conversation with Garrett out of his mind. He didn't have to make a decision just yet; he'd only agreed to talk to Garrett and that could be months from now depending on when their schedules matched up again. His meeting with Fury would be starting soon and he needed to mentally prepare. They had uncovered more than they'd expected when Fury had asked him to investigate the missing underground arms dealers. While the CIA was happy to not have to deal with them anymore, it made them nervous to have them unaccounted for as well.

He grabbed his tablet before securing the office, heading towards the conference room. Entering it, he found May already seated. He could tell by the tightening of her lips and her narrowed gaze that she was still pissed so he made no effort to engage her in conversation, just taking his own seat across from her at the round table. They didn’t have to wait long before other agents began to file in and the meeting was called to order.

“We’ve been tracking these missing underground arms dealers for months now,” Jasper Sitwell began without preamble, both his bald brown scalp and large glasses glinting in the overhead lights. “There’s been no evidence that this is anything other than the result of normal skirmishes in the underworld. Those arms dealers are likely dead.”

“Likely is not the same as confirmed,” Phil said, having already anticipated the argument. “That’s why the CIA hired SHIELD.”

“And yet all you’ve brought us so far is a conspiracy theory.” Victoria Hand tilted her head, the pink streak in her brown hair swinging with the movement. “Good to see the government’s money is being put to good use.”

“I’ve brought you a lead,” he said mildly. “Which is more than you had before.”

“I agree with Hand,” Felix Blake said with a frown downturning the corners of his mouth. “A weaponized suit that can fly? It’s either the Holy Grail or the bogeyman of the underground world, depending on who you ask, and has no basis in reality. Hell, we don’t even have flying cars yet.” He said the last statement as if it was a personal affront.

Phil suppressed a smile. He did miss the banter of his former fellow CIA agents. They gave each other a hard time but it was all in pursuit of the cause, of making sure that justice was served.

“If those arms dealers were truly dead,” Phil said patiently, “there would be power grabs and much more upheaval than there currently is. Something’s going on and there is likely someone behind the scenes pulling the strings.”

“The desert was extensively searched near where Stark was recovered,” Maria Hill said. As Deputy Director of the CIA, her speaking gained the instant attention of everyone in the room. “Nothing was ever found. It does seem as if you might be barking up the wrong tree with this one, Phil.”

“Maybe being in that plane has sent your head to the clouds,” Blake said. “We deal with hard facts here at the CIA.”

Phil suppressed an eye roll but didn’t take the criticism to heart. It was true that all they had were rumors and speculation. He had no real proof yet.

“Stark’s been keeping himself clean,” Sitwell said. “I just don’t see how he has anything to do with this.”

“Yes, he has.” Nick Fury’s voice cut through the room and everyone imperceptibly straightened up. Phil had to admit that for him some of it was instinctual, the omega in him reacting to Fury’s alpha presence, but that didn’t explain the others’ reactions. That was due to Fury’s natural ability to command, to inspire the best from his agents. As he watched the Director of the CIA drum his fingers on the table, Phil had to admit that Fury’s uniform of black leather, complete with eyepatch over his left eye, certainly contributed to his larger than life presence.

“Sir?” Phil said after a moment of silence.

Fury lifted his eyes from his own tablet. “Stark’s a junkie,” he said. “Cars, women, drugs; it doesn’t matter. He was raised on weapon design from his mother’s teat. For him to go cold turkey for so long would be unprecedented.”

“Do you think that he’s behind the kidnappings?” Hand asked, raising an eyebrow.

“What Stark wants, he gets,” Sitwell said. “And remorse is a powerful motivator. It’s certainly within his personality profile to want to wipe out other arms dealers.”

“Those arms dealers disappeared without a trace. Everything points to professional involvement,” Blake countered. “Stark’s a novice in that regard.”

“Stark certainly has enough money to hire whoever he wants.” Sitwell swiped through his tablet. “There are a number of mercenaries who would be capable enough to pull something like this off.”

Phil hadn’t taken his eyes off of the Director. He recognized that look on Fury’s face, had seen seen it plenty of times when Fury had been his S.O. “Sir?” he repeated, apprehension curling in his gut.

“We need to get inside of his head,” Fury said. He looked straight at Phil. “I need you to go in.”


	18. Chapter 18

“With all due respect, sir.” The edge in May’s voice could have cut steel and her eyes flashed with anger. “Coulson is no longer your agent. He’s the Director of SHIELD. You can’t order him to go into the field.”

Fury turned his sharp gaze on May before glancing over at Phil. His eyebrows lifted slightly and Phil had to fight the urge to shift under his scrutiny; even with only one eye, Fury always saw far more than he should. 

“Never said that he was,” Fury replied. “That doesn’t change the fact that he’s the only spy I trust who has the skill set I need.”

Phil didn’t react to the sensation of suddenly being examined by every agent in the room. He wasn’t sure what Fury was playing at with pitting them against each other like this. They had all known each other a long time and were well aware of each other’s strengths and weaknesses.

Blake gave him a once-over and scoffed under his breath. He knew as much about the Starks’ history as Phil did, having been fixated on Howard Stark’s Nitramene much in the same way that Phil had been obsessed over Howard’s attempts to make a flying car. He had a quick wit that Tony would appreciate sparring with and a way of being seemingly disinterested that encouraged people to use him as a sounding board for their troubles.

Hand was more circumspect in her examination of him but her single raised eyebrow made it clear that she wasn’t impressed. Despite Tony’s never-ending stream of sexual conquests, he had a special relationship with his former assistant and now CEO of Stark Industries, Pepper Potts. Hand had a similar take charge, take no prisoners attitude as Potts to which Tony had historically responded well.

Sitwell’s eyes were unwavering behind his glasses. He was the most junior of the group; he started out as Coulson’s protege but quickly rose through the ranks as his superior skills at infiltration became apparent. His Patsy became legendary, allowing him not only to gain access to secret intelligence by playing the pushover but also giving many of the CIA’s tactics teams the opening they needed to strike by diverting attention away from them. He was adaptable and versatile, a well-rounded agent.

Any one of them could easily do the job that Fury was asking. 

It was Hand who gave voice to what they were all thinking, eyes narrowed behind the thick black frames of her glasses. “Which is?”

Fury didn’t hesitate. “Coulson’s an omega.”

The silence was so absolute that it felt tangible, a suffocating presence that Phil had to fight in order to keep breathing in and out. He’d worked hard to keep his omega status a non-issue, to show that it’d had no bearing on his abilities as an agent. Now, Fury was dragging it out into the light and thrusting his designation in front of his colleagues’ faces. With his recent unexpected heat and the obvious effect it had had on his work, it was almost too much to bear. Unseen under the polished wooden table, his right hand curled into a tight fist, his fingernails digging into his palm as he struggled to maintain control.

“I was unaware that our designation could be considered a ‘skill.’” There was a sneer in Blake’s voice as he said the word ‘designation.’ Phil dug his fingernails further into his palm. Despite the fact that designation was a universal term, it seemed to be only said that way when applied to alphas and omegas. Likewise, he could see the mirrored condemnation in Hand’s eyes. Sitwell was the only one who didn’t change expression.

“Oh, come on.”

Startled, Phil pulled his attention away from the agents, focusing his attention on the other occupants of the table. May looked furious, her mouth drawn into such a hard line that her lips had practically disappeared. Fury’s expression was calm but then there wasn’t much that could faze him. 

Hill, the one who’d spoken, was visibly exasperated as she surveyed the agents. “If I need an agent to seduce a woman, I’m going to send Hand. If I need someone to bring down a Central American cartel from the inside, I’m going to send Sitwell. If I need a spy to infiltrate a white supremacy group, I’m going to send Blake.”

A small furrow appeared between Blake’s brows. “Why wouldn't you send me to seduce a woman?”

A corner of Hand’s mouth quirked. “Because I'm better,” she said.

“The point,” Hill continued, “is that we all have traits that can be advantageous during a mission and yes, we do consider that to be part of your skill set when assigning missions.”

Fury rose from the table and walked over to the window, staring out of it in a relaxed parade rest. “Tony Stark has been surrounded by betas his entire life,” he said. “Growing up, it was his parents, his butler Jarvis, and his mentor Obadiah Stane, who are all dead now. Lately, his closest companions have been Pepper Potts, Happy Hogan, and Bruce Banner, and they’re all betas as well.”

“He’s been relatively isolated from the omega community,” Hill picked up the thread of conversation. “A fling here or there for controversy’s sake but he hasn’t had a friend or a relative who knows what it’s like.”

“He needs a confidante,” Fury continued, “especially now.” He nodded to Hill, who slid a folder over to Phil. “His latest behavior has become erratic. He’s been isolating himself ever since he turned over the company to Potts. He’s starting to auction off his car and art collection and has stopped going to events.”

Phil had been reaching to open the folder but at that, his head shot up to look at Fury. “You don’t think - ?”

Fury met his gaze head on. “I don’t know,” he said grimly. “But we need to find out. With the recent rise in arms dealers kidnappings, we can’t take the chance. Last time, it took us three months to find him.”

Searching his memory, Phil was coming up with too many possibilities. “He’s been in the public eye too much. Too many people surrounding him to know for sure. Not to mention, he’s perfectly capable of carrying on a secret affair.”

“And yet - ” Fury raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

Phil was quick to pick up on Fury’s thought. “Potts, Hogan, and Banner,” he murmured. “He’s keeping them close?”

“All three of them have guest rooms at Stark Tower,” 

“Care to let the rest of us in on this conversation?” Sitwell asked quietly. There was confusion in the others’ eyes when Phil turned to look. Hill and May were the only ones who looked like they had been following their train of thought; Hill and Fury must have discussed the possibility before and May had intimate knowledge of the behavior patterns of omegas, having once been married to one herself.

Phil drew in a breath, mentally steadying himself. The knowledge he had about omega instincts could be important and yet it was harder to talk about than he’d expected, so used to concealing this aspect of himself from his professional life.

“Alphas and omegas have,” Phil spoke slowly as he carefully picked his words, “intense biological drives.”

Blake rolled his eyes. “Yes, we’ve all seen the PSA on ruts and heats, thank you.”

Phil was shaking his head before Blake finished his sentence. “It goes beyond ruts and heats,” he said quietly. “It affects every aspect of our lives.” 

“What do you mean?” Sitwell tilted his head and his glasses caught the sun, the glare preventing Phil from seeing his eyes. The angle was just right that Phil could just see his own reflection in the lenses instead, a double image of himself staring back at him.

_Omegas are all alike. I bet you would throw away a mission at the chance to pant on someone’s knot._

Phil clenched his jaw as anger surged within him. A slight movement of Sitwell’s head and Phil was looking into his puzzled brown eyes instead, the glare gone from his lenses of his glasses.

“Was that impolite to ask?” he asked, voice carefully neutral.

“No.” Phil shook his head again and drew in another breath, pushing the old anger away. He needed to get a grip soon or he was going to lose control. Meeting Sitwell’s gaze, he answered, “No, it’s relevant. I would need to see him to be sure but it sounds like Stark is starting to display, for lack of a better term, nesting behavior.”

A loud guffaw broke the silence and all eyes turned to Blake. He was fighting and failing to keep a smile off his face. “Seriously? Like a - ?” His voice broke off once he realized no one else shared his amusement.

It was easier this time to keep his emotions under control, used to that type of reaction, although there was still a slight edge to his voice when he spoke for those who knew him well. “And that,” Phil said, “is exactly why we don’t talk about it.”

Hand visibly hesitated before speaking in a firm voice. “I know what that means for us,” she said with a glance to the other women in the room, who were all female betas. “Is it the same for you?”

“Male omegas are childbearers, just like female betas and female omegas,” Phil said, “so yes, we get the same urges.” He had unconsciously fallen into the same pattern of speech he used with junior agents. It made it easier to think of this as just another lecture, rather than spilling the private details of his own life to his colleagues. “The difference is that if an omega is around a compatible partner, that urge can become,” Phil paused as he tried to think of the right word, “all-consuming.”

“An alpha,” Hand said with the finality of someone pleased to have come to the right conclusion.

Phil frowned. “No, a compatible partner. It doesn’t need to be an alpha.”

He deliberately kept his eyes away from May. He knew this topic was a sore spot for her, considering how her relationship with Andrew ended, and he didn’t want to draw any attention in her direction.

“Wait,” Blake said, holding up one hand, a thunderous look on his face. “Like I said, we all sat through those ridiculous PSAs. What’s the point of ruts and heats if omegas aren’t supposed to be with alphas?”

Phil was momentarily taken aback. “Ruts and heats have nothing to do with who you decide to spend your life with,” he said slowly.

“Don’t they?” Blake asked with a raise of his eyebrows. “Every year, millions of dollars are spent on pheromone erasers and scrubbers and repair of property damage from heat-driven omegas and rut-lust alphas. There’s an increase in man hours for police officers every time there’s a civil disturbance because of it. Special respite rooms have to be in every building just in case. Every business has to count on at least a week’s loss of productivity every year for every alpha and omega that they employ.”

Blake shrugged his shoulders. “It’s already been proven that it’s impossible for betas to keep up with alphas and omegas during their ruts and heats. So I would hope that all these extra resources are so alphas and omegas can be together and isn’t just going to waste.”

Phil was stunned speechless, a hollow feeling settling into his gut as he looked at people he thought he knew well. These were his colleagues, people he trained with since his first days at the CIA, and they knew next to nothing about alpha/omega dynamics.

“Thank you,” Hill snapped, “for demonstrating exactly why we need to send Coulson in rather than any of you.” She glared at Blake in particular, who looked back in utter confusion.

“You don’t even see,” a ripple of unease swept through the room at the banked anger in Fury’s voice, “how much this bullshit Traditionalist propaganda has influenced your way of thinking.” He didn’t move from where he stood by the window as he spoke, eye on the cars and people far below them. The late afternoon sun glinted off of his bald brown scalp and caused his shadow to stretch long behind him.

Silence reigned after Fury’s statement. Phil wanted to say something but couldn’t sort through his feelings enough to put together a coherent sentence. In fact, he wanted to scream, thoughts flitting through his head in knee-jerk reaction to everything Blake said. They were all people. It wasn’t special treatment for businesses to be accommodating for the particular needs of alphas and omegas. And why should he be limited to alphas because of his designation? Yet, he knew that would start a larger discussion that he was just too tired to participate in at the moment. He didn’t want to have to explain himself to his colleagues. They were all highly trained specialists; they should just know this already. 

Fury spun to face them and his leather trench coat swirled around his legs before settling down in heavy folds. “I guarantee that Stark hasn’t realized it either.” His piercing gaze settled on Phil before he said quietly, “He needs you.”

Phil understood. The mission was paramount of course but there was also a unique opportunity for him to help a struggling omega, one who may not understand all the changes his body could go through. As usual, Fury was right. There wasn’t anyone else who would be able to get inside Stark’s head like he could.

He nodded once, holding Fury’s gaze. “I accept the mission.”


	19. Chapter 19

“This mission is classified Level 8,” Hill said to the room at large. Level 8 was a codephrase that meant the mission was to be discussed only by those directly involved in its implementation. Level 9 was restricted to the Deputy Director and Director while Level 10 was for the Director’s eyes only. Her eyes settled on the three agents. “We will still be researching the missing arms dealers with our own resources. You have your assignments. Dismissed.”

They took their leave without discussion, Hand briskly walking to her next destination, Sitwell following her out at a more sedate but no less intent speed. Blake ambled towards the doorway and right before he left the room, his eyes met Phil’s. Phil couldn’t quite discern the look in Blake’s light blue eyes; it was contemplative but for a brief moment, it also held something that made Phil want to shiver in response. Then Blake was gone, the conference room door closing behind him, and Phil shook off the feeling. He was probably still off-kilter from the conversation they had just had.

Speaking of which, he leveled his gaze on Hill, voice a little sharper than he originally intended as he asked, “What the hell was that?”

Hill sighed. “That just summed up our current problem here at the CIA.”

Fury walked back over to his seat at the table. “We don’t have enough alpha or omega field agents at the moment and we’re having a hell of a time recruiting them.”

“You know what it’s like being an omega field agent and trying to advance through the ranks,” Hill said to Phil, pushing a strand of her shoulder-length hair behind her ear. He and Hill had shared many a drink together when the time had come for him to switch teams yet again. She had been instrumental in making sure that he and May had stayed together in a unit, switching the other members of their team out when needed, once he’d found a beta willing to go to the bat for him. 

“Unfortunately, it’s only gotten worse,” Hill continued. “Even if we can get them through basic field training, they tend to ask for a desk job before they’re even halfway through advanced.”

May’s brow furrowed. “Because of the Traditionalist doctrine?”

Hill nodded. “It’s hard for us to even get alphas and omegas interested in trying out for the CIA in the first place because it’s a nontraditional field. Then so many wash out of field training because of the harassment they get from the betas.”

“Nothing that can be reported, of course,” Phil said, unable to stop the bitter note from entering his voice.

“Of course,” Hill said. He could see from the look in her eye that she remembered some of the snide comments he’d received that he’d allowed himself to tell her when he’d been really drunk. “But enough for them to be discouraged from going further. Less than 2% of our active field agents are alphas and omegas.”

“We can’t function effectively like this,” Fury said quietly. “And it’s not just the CIA. I’ve tried talking to other members of the intelligence community but they don’t view it as a problem.”

“In fact,” Hill said shortly, “they think having a majority beta force is an asset.”

“They think just like Blake,” May said slowly. “No need to deal with ruts or heats if your employees are all betas.” She looked at Fury. “Even with you in charge, sir?”

Phil and Fury shared a glance that May was quick to pick up on. “They’ve been trying to kick you out, haven’t they?” Phil said knowingly.

“For years,” Fury said. The corners of his mouth quirked upwards in a smile that held no amusement. “Say it’s time to take the training wheels off of Hill and let her advance to Director, considering she has to take over whenever I go into rut anyway.”

“To which I flat out refuse every time they ask,” Hill said grimly. “Fury’s a good Director and his job isn’t done yet.”

Phil was glad that his friends were still fighting the good fight but was still confused as to how he played into this. He was no longer a CIA agent. In fact, Fury had encouraged him and May to go into the private sector specifically so that they could take the missions that couldn’t be publicly linked back to the CIA.

“Why the show?” Phil leaned back in his chair. “You could have just hired SHIELD for the job without bringing those agents into it.”

Fury looked at him approvingly. Even now, Phil still felt pride whenever he received praise from his former S.O. “Those are my three best agents,” Fury said bluntly. “And they know jack shit about alphas and omegas, as they just demonstrated.”

“I’ve been trying to make life better for alpha and omega field agents,” Hill said. “We devised a new training module on alpha and omega dynamics for all field agents to undergo. I’ve tried to put forth stricter rules as to what constitutes reportable harassment. I’ve increased our recruitment efforts as much as I can.”

“You’ve gotten nowhere,” Phil said quietly.

Hill nodded, frustration and sadness in her eyes. “It’s all about the money,” she said. “Too much effort, not enough reward. None of my proposals have gone through.”

Phil was starting to see where they were going. “This mission is firmly within the CIA’s wheelhouse,” he said slowly. “There’s no reason you would need to hire a private contractor.”

May caught on as well. “Unless you didn’t have a properly trained agent and were forced to go into the private sector,” she said.

“Not only that,” Fury said with a fierce grin on his face, “but we had to hire the director of the company for a long term undercover mission which meant that his services were a little pricier than usual.”

Phil looked at the two of them. “Do you really think it will work?” His time as a CIA field agent had been tough, much tougher than it had needed to be. While it had given him the thick skin he had now, there was no reason for non-betas to have to suffer as much as they currently do.

Hill and Fury looked at each other. “Honestly,” Hill said, turning to Phil, “we don’t know if it will. The fact remains that we do have a mission that needs an omega agent and you’re the only one qualified to do it. We hope the rest of the fallout goes as planned but we’ll deal with the hand that we’re dealt.”

Phil spread his fingers over the cover of the as yet unopened folder on the table in front of him. He knew it contained the mission dossier: a summary of what they had learned so far, an abridged biography of Tony Stark, his new undercover identity. There was a lot riding on this mission. The chance to find out what was happening with the missing undercover arms dealers. The chance to help a potentially struggling omega. The opportunity to turn things around for future alpha and omega CIA field agents.

And yet he also knew that this was going to be a long con. He would have gain Stark’s trust to find out whether he was the mastermind behind the kidnappings or a future target. This wasn’t something that was going to be wrapped up in a couple of weeks. It would take months, at minimum, and he wasn’t exactly a free agent. As the Director of SHIELD, he needed to be there for his team. He had responsibilities.

A sharp twinge went through the bruise on his shoulder, making its presence known, a physical reminder of him recently not living up to his responsibilities. For one brief moment, his control slipped, remembering the sharp bite and his own fall over the edge, Clint’s strangled moan echoing in his ear. His hand was halfway to his own abdomen before he regained control, curling his hand into a fist on the tabletop instead. Phil closed his eyes and silently thanked the fact that his pheromone levels had at least remained steady.

“Ladies,” Fury said. Even with his eyes closed, Phil could feel the weight of his piercing gaze. “Could you give us a moment?”

Phil kept his eyes closed as the two women stood up and exited the room. He waited until the door closed behind before saying, “I take it Hill still doesn’t know about the suppressants?”

“The fewer people know, the better. It is human experimentation, after all.” Fury hesitated before speaking again. “I’ve put out feelers in case we do stabilize the formula.”

“Yeah?” Phil opened his eyes and met Fury’s gaze. “And?”

“There are more betas in support of it than alphas and omegas.”

Shock went through Phil. “What?” he asked. “Why?”

“It’s not that they don’t want to have control over their own heats and ruts,” Fury said. “It’s that they’re afraid it will be used against them. It would be another tool for betas to mandate, like the scrubbers and erasers.”

He was right. It would be easy for heats and ruts to become regulated, for governments to pass laws requiring the use of suppressants in the name of public safety. Phil had only been thinking of not having to limit his time as a field agent when he’d proposed the concept to Fitz and Simmons three years ago, of having the freedom to decide when he wanted to go through a heat. “Shit,” Phil said softly. “I didn’t even think of that.”

“Having a heat or a rut is the one time they get to be themselves,” Fury continued. “They don’t want to give that up.”

There was something in his voice that made Phil take notice. He looked at Fury carefully. “And you, sir? Do you feel that way too?”

Fury didn’t speak for a long moment. “This job takes a lot of choices away from you,” he finally said. Phil couldn’t help the slight jolt that went through him when Fury said the word ‘choices’ but he carefully schooled his expression to remain blank. “We do it because we believe in preserving truth and justice, in safeguarding our nation’s security so that our citizens can live out their lives in peace. It means we miss out on many of the same experiences that we work to defend.”

Phil looked at him steadily. “Not like you to beat around the bush, sir.”

“Fine.” Fury leaned forward, his one eye hard and unflinting. “You done pissed me off, Phil Coulson,” he all but growled. “I have the opportunity of a lifetime here, a chance to really change things for us, and not only do you go and get knocked up, jeopardizing your ability to be part of the mission, but now I have to worry that your baby daddy’s an assassin to boot.”

The anger he had been keeping at bay bubbled up inside of him, white hot in its intensity. “You think I wanted this?” Phil gritted out through clenched teeth. “You think I wanted to go through heat, while on a mission, no less? That’s the whole reason I was on the suppressants in the first place!”

“I read May’s report.” Fury’s gaze was uncompromising. “You planted a tracker on Barton before you left the plane. You waited until the last possible moment to let your team know about your predicament, until you were so far gone you were almost in the black. There was no time for them to even attempt an extraction because you were closer to him than they were to you.”

Phil’s mouth opened but nothing came out. The truth of Fury’s words hammered at him.

“You told them that Barton was the alpha you were going to be spending your heat with. You gave them no other option, ordered Morse to go in your place.”

“The mission needed to be completed.”

Fury was relentless. “You could have rescheduled the meet rather than send in an unknown agent,” he said. “Victor would have understood.”

Phil had no reply. His heart pounded in his chest.

“Tell me something, Phil,” Fury said. His eye narrowed. “Who initiated contact on the plane? You or Barton?”

He remembered peering at his laptop, trying to ignore the clean soap scent of the alpha in the seat next to him. He’d kept trying to go over the details of the mission but he’d been distracted by dirty blond hair, the flex of a bicep under the simple T-shirt, the soft curve of a full mouth. That mouth had blown out a breath and Phil had been speaking before he’d realized, wanting, needing to see the man’s eyes.

_Don’t like flying?_

He’d been rewarded with irises caught on the dividing line between blue and green, flecks of hue that corresponded with the blue of a cloudless spring day mixed with the green of the fresh shoots of new grass. He had almost missed Clint’s response trying to determine if there was gold as well in their depths and had floundered to say something to keep the conversation going.

“I’ve known you a long time, Phil. You’ve never had a problem using condoms during a heat before.”

Phil came back to himself to find one hand touching his shoulder, where the still tender bruise lay. There was a knowing look in Fury’s eyes and he dropped his hand so fast that it banged against the edge of the wooden table, his pinky smarting instantly in response.

“Fuck,” Phil cried out reflexively, grabbing his hurt hand with the other as the sting traveled up his arm. He looked down at his hand to see if there was a bruise forming but then his gaze traveled further, landing on his flat abdomen underneath his pristine white dress shirt.

“Fuck,” he repeated softly, the anger he’d felt melting away before an onslaught of guilt and shame. He had nobody to blame. He’d done this to himself.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have questions about the way I've depicted Clint's hearing impairment, please read the notes at the end of the chapter first.

Clint shifted once again, trying and failing to get comfortable in the middle seat. The beta on his right had been snoring ever since takeoff, a sonorous drone emanating from his slack mouth that was only briefly interrupted when they hit a small patch of turbulence. He’d started off vertical at the beginning of the flight but now listed to one side, his large, flabby arm covering the armrest between them and thick thigh encroaching more and more into the small amount of leg space Clint had available to him.

He crossed his arms, trying to make his own muscular frame smaller; Clint was doing his best not to invade the personal space of the slender beta in the seat on his left. She had stick straight black hair cut severely at the shoulders, curved bangs brushing her eyebrows and mask covering up the lower half so that all he could see of her face were large dark almond shaped eyes. There were at least two more people on the plane with similar face masks, a trend that started in Asia and seemed to be making its way to the States, marketed to help block out scents while traveling.

Clint actually didn’t mind the stronger mixture of pheromones in the economy seats, even with the high strength erasers recirculating through the pressurized air. He’d never understood the fuss about having a strong scent in public, in fact, liked being able to take the measure of a person instantly. Perhaps it had something to do with his unconventional upbringing but he didn’t like being blinded to that aspect of a person. Rather, it was the competing chemical smells of all the different kinds of pheromone erasers that was giving him a headache. Some of them even had scents added to them: peach and cedar and something paradoxically called musk that threatened his gag reflex whenever he caught a whiff.

Another patch of turbulence had his neighbor slumping over even further into Clint’s space, causing him to grimace and lean away as much as he could. He wished that he could just nudge the beta awake but he hadn’t seen enough of the man’s personality to know how he would react to an alpha touching him; the last thing he wanted was to be detained once the plane landed. He’d downgraded his return flight ticket from first class to coach immediately upon seeing the final bill of his stay in the Copenhagen hotel and knew he owed huge apologies to the Bishops. While they had been generous in their sponsorship of his Olympic bid, he didn’t think that included expenses accrued during his rut.

A spark of heat went through his abdomen and Clint had to struggle to keep his pheromones in check. His rut had ended a week ago and yet he was still experiencing moments like this, times when he had to work harder to keep his pheromone levels under control. He hadn’t had time to determine the cause as he’d spent the week in competition, pushing his exhausted body to its limits in order to participate in the World Archery Championships. He almost hadn’t been allowed in the tournament at first, pheromone level still so elevated in the aftermath of rut that an eraser couldn’t hide it, and had to endure several humiliating tests before they determined that he was lucid enough to compete.

Despite his exhaustion, he’d found it difficult to sleep all week. He still felt unsettled in his skin, a restless energy plaguing him at the abrupt end to his rut. He had no contact information for Phil, no way to know if he was really okay. An internet search had pulled up too many results for him to go through, the name Phil Coulson generic enough to spawn hundreds of thousands of hits, and with no further information to narrow his inquiry, he’d reluctantly given up. Even if he’d found Phil, he wasn’t entirely sure whether he would have gone through with trying to get in contact with him or what he would have said if he had.

The seatbelt and no smoking signs lit up. The overhead speaker crackled and then the flight attendant began speaking in a perky, singsong voice. Between the terrible quality of the speaker and the high pitch of her voice, Clint couldn’t make out exactly what she was saying but from the way everyone was stirring, it seemed that she was announcing their imminent descent. With relief, Clint noted his male neighbor waking up as well. He scrubbed a hand over his face and shot Clint a disgruntled look as he sat up. Clint breathed a sigh of relief at getting some of his personal space back which turned into a sigh of frustration as his ears promptly closed up with the change in altitude as the plane angled downward.

Deplaning ended up being almost as tiresome an experience as the flight itself. Because of the last minute change in his ticket, his seat was in the very back of the plane near the restrooms; he had to wait close to half an hour as people shuffled their way from their seats to the aisle, each one having to spend a few moments searching for where they had stored their carry-on because they had somehow completely forgotten in the ensuing eight hours. Clint spent the time trying in vain to pop his ears, yawning widely and trying to blow his nose while pinching his nostrils closed, but the pressure across his eardrum refused to equalize. Finally, the beta on his left slipped out of her seat, clutching a strawberry shaped purse to her chest as she made her way down the aisle and Clint was free to grab his duffle bag. He nodded politely to the flight attendants and pilot as he got off the plane before making his way to the baggage claim.

The baggage carousel hadn’t even started up yet when he arrived and he recognized some of his fellow passengers milling around it. Leaning against the wall such that he could see most of the terminal, he dug into the side pocket of his carry-on and pulled out his cell phone. Exchanging texts with Buck and Kate to let them know he had safely touched down killed time while he waited, eyes darting between his cellphone screen and the crowd.

The carousel jerked forward and a moment later, luggage began to slide down the chute to land heavily on the conveyor belt. Clint winced as one suitcase landed upside down, hoping he would find his bow and arrows intact when he opened his purple equipment bag later. The crowd thinned as people snagged their luggage and through an opening, he could see a cluster of town car drivers at the other side of the terminal, placards in hand as they waited for their passengers to acknowledge them. Clint idly cast his gaze over them and with a start, realized that one of them was holding a sign with his name neatly lettered on it.

His thumbs tapped the touch screen of his phone with unnecessary force as he sent another text to Kate.

_Clint: Kate, u need to stop doing this. there’s nothing wrong with me taking the train_

_Katie-Kate: ????? what are you talking about?_

Clint frowned and looked back up at the group of drivers. He didn’t really need the confirmation - he knew what he saw - but there it was in black and white: **Clint Barton**

_Clint: u didnt send a car to pick me up?_

_Katie-Kate: nope. must’ve been Dad._

He looked up again in time to see his equipment bag slide down the chute. In a few quick strides, he reached the edge of the carousel and snagged the bag before it could get too far, feeling comforted by the familiar weight as he slung it over his shoulder. He hesitated, a part of him wanting to just hop on the subway and make his way home, but he squashed the impulse and headed over, nodding when the driver said his name in an accented voice, white teeth flashing against the dark skin of his lips. 

Clint waited until they were almost at the car before he got the driver’s attention again. The parking lot wasn't exactly quiet but he usually did okay with male voices. With the sunlight shining on the man’s mouth, he had a better chance of understanding his reply.

“Are you taking me home?”

The driver was tall, easily clearing 6 feet compared to Clint’s perfectly respectable 5’ 9” height. In response to Clint’s question, he tilted his head to look down at him causing the brim of his cap to catch the sun just right so that a shadow fell over his face.

Normally, it wouldn't have been a problem. Clint’s sharp eyes could pick up sights that other people missed and he’d been lipreading for so long that it was like second nature to him. People were often predictable so he could usually figure out the gist of what they were saying and repeating what he thought he’d heard for confirmation allowed him to get through most conversations without people knowing about his hearing loss. Even if he didn’t catch everything, people usually assumed he was stupid rather than hearing impaired. Phones were admittedly trickier but the same conversation tricks applied and he tried to stick to texting when he could, limiting his phone conversations to people he knew well.

But Clint was tired, ears still plugged from the plane descent, and the man’s particular accent meant that he both pronounced words in a way Clint wasn’t used to and didn’t move his lips overly much. It all added up to Clint only knowing that the length of the driver’s reply meant that he most likely hadn’t said “yes.”

Unease coiled in Clint’s gut. He didn’t like admitting he had a problem with his hearing, particularly with people he didn’t know, but he didn’t see a way out of it this time. He knew some drivers liked to chat, which is why he avoided cabs, and if this was really Derek Bishop’s town car, he didn’t want to appear rude to his sponsor’s employee. He shifted his equipment bag, gripping the shoulder strap tightly.

“Look,” Clint said, discomfort making his tone more abrupt than usual, “my hearing’s not the greatest. If you move into the light, I can read your lips better.”

The man only hesitated a moment before tilting his head so the sunlight fell onto his face. His eyes were narrowed as he repeated what he’d said before but Clint wasn’t sure if that was due to annoyance or the glare. The man finished speaking and waited expectantly.

Clint still didn’t have a clue as to what the man said but one word had looked vaguely familiar. Kate had told him that she hadn’t sent the car so he went with the next likely scenario. “We’re going to see Derek Bishop?”

One quick nod in response and then the driver crossed the rest of the short distance to the car, smartly opening the rear door.

Clint’s grip tightened on his bags as he peered into the interior. He didn’t want to get into the car. He wanted to go home, faceplant on his bed, and sleep for a week. But Derek Bishop was the only reason he’d had this opportunity. Clint hadn’t even seen him since he agreed to become his sponsor. Kate had badgered him into coming to one of her private practices after Clint had confessed his dream of trying for the Olympics. He’d been reluctantly impressed by Clint’s demonstration of his skill and had waved off Clint’s stammered thanks once he’d agreed to sponsor him, saying that the philanthropy would be good for the Bishop brand just so long as Clint could guarantee a win.

Clint had almost screwed that all up by agreeing to see Phil through his heat. He owed Bishop an explanation, not to mention hundreds of dollars in hotel expenses.

Stomach roiling with nerves now, he ducked his head and slid into the backseat of the car, decidedly not flinching when the door slammed shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter largely deals with Clint's hearing impairment, which was previously mentioned back in chapter 14.
> 
> A while back, I got a comment suggesting my inclusion of Clint's hearing impairment in this story was done on a whim and the fact that he doesn't visibly wear hearing aids and seemingly has normal hearing in the story was done with the intent of erasing his hearing loss.
> 
> Let me be very clear. Clint has a hearing impairment. He has had a hearing impairment during this entire story and it is an integral part of his character.
> 
> I have deliberately chosen to depict his hearing impairment in a subtle way until now because Clint wants to move through the world as if he has 100% of his hearing and has structured his life so that he can. If you've read Matt Fraction's _Hawkeye_ , I wanted to show the Clint that is depicted in between his two ear injuries, the one that seemingly understands everyone around him and the one that no one suspects has a hearing loss. I wanted to do this because disability is not always visible and I found it unlikely that Clint regained all of his hearing after his childhood trauma. With all the coming upheavals, the fact that he has a hearing loss will become a more prominent aspect of his life.
> 
> If you still have questions or concerns about the way Clint's hearing impairment has been depicted so far or will be in the future, please feel free to ask in the comments. Please note that I may not answer every question right now and will let you know if it's something that will be addressed in future chapters.


	21. Chapter 21

Clint grimaced as his ears finally popped after ten minutes of determined effort on his part. He must have looked a sight to the driver while making faces in the backseat but he didn’t want to risk not being able to understand Derek Bishop while he was speaking. His hands tightened on his bags as he stared out the window as they merged onto the clogged arterial that was Grand Central Parkway, unable to shake a sense of foreboding.

He hadn’t seen Bishop since that day in the range. The details of Clint’s sponsorship had been hammered out between Bishop’s army of lawyers and Clint’s mentor Buck, with Clint intentionally staying out of the negotiations. He had known that he would have been hopeless at following a conversation of a group of people speaking legalese so he’d left them to it. The final contract Buck had brought him had seemed fair enough so Clint had signed it in the range’s small office without reservation, the chance of accomplishing his dreams literally at his fingertips, pushing down his fears that somehow it would all go wrong.

A frown creased Clint’s forehead. It was possible that he was just overreacting and there was a simple explanation that Bishop had waited to meet with him until now. After all, the World Archery Championships were the final hurdle for qualifications for the Olympics. Seizing onto that glimmer of hope, he tried very hard not to think about anything at all as the car made its way into the heart of the city, the glass and chrome skyscrapers of Manhattan towering above them. The driver was clearly adept at navigating New York City traffic, smoothly winding his way through gawking tourists and impatient cabbies. The muggy August heat had manifested itself as a shimmer in the air and Clint loathed to arrive at their destination, giving up the cool interior of the town car for the humidity outside.

All too soon, the driver pulled up to an imposing apartment building. It was one of the older buildings in the city that had been renovated for modern times. The driver was quick to exit after parking the car so that he was already opening the rear door by the time Clint had roused himself to slide across the back seat. Clint stepped out of the vehicle, grimacing at the blast of moist hot air that greeted him. For a brief panicked second after he straightened up, equipment bag slung over his shoulder and duffle bag held in a fist, Clint wondered if he was supposed to give the man a tip but he had already shut the car door and was moving away from him. In another moment, the driver was back behind the wheel and pulling away, leaving Clint on the curb with an unsettled feeling in his gut.

There was nothing to do but face the music. Clint clenched his jaw and headed towards the glass revolving doors. Its solid wooden frame was gilt with brass and its heaviness a testament to bygone craftsmanship, requiring Clint to put more effort than he was expecting to get inside the air conditioned lobby. The dark-haired beta sitting behind the front desk was chirpy in a way that grated on his nerves as she verified his ID. He didn’t miss the appreciative look she swept over him but the tension in his body from the long uncomfortable flight and speculation over his upcoming conversation with Bishop meant he was in no mood to flirt. Disappointment at Clint’s lack of interest caused her mouth to pinch as she stood up to show him to the vintage-styled elevator bank in the lobby, complete with brass dial indicators above the elevator doors for each floor.

There was an elevator car already waiting, its gleaming silver interior an indication of its more recent renovation. The beta swiped an access card to allow him access to the top floor and then stepped back into the lobby, letting the elevator’s doors slide shut behind her. The ride upwards was smooth and quick, the car arriving at the top floor within a couple of minutes. It opened onto a small brightly lit foyer where a man in a butler’s uniform stood waiting.

“This way,” said the butler, before setting off at a moderately brisk pace. Clint surreptitiously scented the air once his back was turned and identified the butler as another beta.

The apartment looked like it was from a design catalog, full of unused space and uncomfortable-looking furniture. It was obviously intended to make a statement about the wealth of its inhabitants, not to be lived in, and it was hard for Clint to imagine warm, bubbly Kate growing up in such a cold environment. By the time they reached the study, he was feeling the intimidating effect of the decor, shoulders tight and stomach cramped with nerves. The butler motioned him inside and then closed the door behind him with a soft click.

“Have a seat.” 

The study was just as sleek and modern as the rest of the apartment. Clint headed over to sit in the single hard-backed chair positioned in front of an oversized glass-topped desk. The man sitting behind it regarded him with small, beady eyes, his fingers steepled like a scene from a bad action movie. In fact, everything about Derek Bishop reminded Clint of the snake oil salesmen from the carnival, from his weak chin to his greasy, slicked back receding black hair.

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the corner of the desk. Nerves already so frayed from the past couple of weeks, it took all Clint had to keep quiet, waiting for Bishop to make the first move. After a long moment, Bishop stood up and made his way around the desk to lean against the front of it, crossing his arms as he looked down at Clint. The chair had been positioned a little too far away from the desk and it was obvious that it had been for this reason.

The whole situation was so absurd that it was almost surreal. Bishop was clearly trying to look imposing but his crossed arms only served to highlight the paunch of his stomach. Between his balding head, creative facial hair, and the open collar of his dress shirt, Bishop looked like he belonged in a Miami nightclub on ‘80s night rather than trying and failing to do his best to loom over Clint.

“Clinton Barton.”

“I prefer Clint actually,” Clint said and then inwardly winced. It probably wasn’t the best idea to start off the conversation by correcting the man but he hated being called Clinton.

Bishop’s eyes narrowed but otherwise he didn’t move. “Do you know what I do?”

Clint shook his head.

“I’m a philanthropist,” Bishop said, “like Tony Stark and Ian Quinn.” There was something in his tone that Clint didn’t like but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was. “Do you know what that means?”

Clint shook his head again, unwilling to speak and break his own concentration. His mind was still sluggish from the flight so he had to keep forcing himself to pay attention. Thankfully, he was having an easier time than he had expected following the conversation. Bishop’s voice was on the softer side but was otherwise clear in the empty room. WIth his arms still crossed, there were no gestures to distract Clint from lipreading.

“It means I take worthless trash like you and I turn it into gold.”

The bottom dropped out of Clint’s stomach. He stared at Bishop, hoping that he had somehow misinterpreted his words. They had been said so matter of factly that Clint thought there had to be some sort of mistake.

“Kate begged me for months,” Bishop continued, “so I finally went down to that range just to get her off my case. Then I saw what you could do and I thought ‘perfect.’” He smirked, his black eyes cold as he looked down at Clint. “Dress up the freakishly talented knothead from the slums with the Bishop logo, send him to the Olympics, and watch the cash flow in from donors. Just like _Annie_.”

Bishop sighed. “I should have known,” he said, disappointment evident in his eyes, “that an alpha wouldn’t be able to resist his base instincts.” He reached for a piece of paper on his desk and held it out to Clint. “The press release will be sent out tomorrow. Try to control yourself until then.”

Automatically, Clint reached out to take it. “Press release?” he asked as his hand grasped the paper.

“Your contract has been terminated.”

It was as if he’d been punched in the stomach, the way the air rushed out of Clint all at once, leaving him light headed and reeling. “What?” he asked, voice faint.

“Did you even read the contract?” Bishop continued without waiting for an answer. “There’s a clearly outlined morality clause that prohibits unsavoury behavior.”

“Unsavoury?”

Bishop frowned. “I thought you would be more appreciative of my generosity,” he said. “Picking up some slutty omega and racking up a huge hotel bill - ”

That galvanized Clint into speech. “That’s not what happened!” he protested. “He went into heat. I had to help him.”

“Did you?” Bishop narrowed his eyes. “The concierge told me he offered to call the authorities. You said no.”

“I couldn’t - ” Bile rose in his throat at the thought of Phil, who had so obviously hated the loss of control, having to suffer through his heat alone in a jail cell. Clint swallowed against the acrid taste. “I couldn’t let him go through that alone.” 

“Well, you made your choice,” Bishop said, shrugging his shoulders. “You broke your contract. This is the consequence.”

One rut. One heat. And all of his dreams were up in smoke.

“Woohoo! Darling?” A shrill voice floated through the air. Clint turned his head to see a slim, blonde woman poking her head through the open door. “Oh!” Her eyes widened as she saw Clint sitting there. “Am I interrupting?”

“No, of course not, poodle.” Clint almost gagged at the simpering expression on Bishop’s face as he waved the woman inside, just as the phone rang. “Hold on a sec.”

The woman, Clint noted, as she tottered inside the room on six inch heels was younger than Clint expected, probably only a couple of years older than Kate. She took Bishop’s place in front of him, leaning her butt against the desk and taking a peek over her shoulder to make sure that Bishop was preoccupied with his phone call. Her mini-skirt rode up her thighs, a fact that she made sure to call attention to by running a hand up her leg towards its hem.

She scented the air, closing her eyes and drawing it out in a deliberately sexual gesture. “Mmm, you’re an alpha,” she said softly when her eyes opened. Her other hand reached up to the collar of her shirt, trailing along her cleavage. Her lips widened in a seductive smile.

Clint clenched his jaw, pushing down his irritation at her blatant advances. Bishop wrapped up his phone call and stood up to greet the woman, looking up at her adoringly after she laid a quick peck on his cheek. Clint shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

His movement drew Bishop’s attention. “We’re done here,” Bishop said, dismissing him with a glance. He leaned up to whisper in the woman’s ear. She bent down with a small giggle and cut her eyes towards Clint once Bishop’s lips were at her ear, sending him an ostentatious wink.

Clint suppressed a sigh and gathered his bags, stuffing the paper Bishop had given him into the back pocket of his jeans. The butler was there to lead him out when he opened the office door.

“Guess I’m taking the train after all,” Clint muttered to himself when he reached the sidewalk outside the apartment building. Securing his equipment bag over his shoulder, he headed for the nearest subway station.

He breathed a sigh of relief once he finally made it to his apartment building. The train had been full of commuters on their way home from work, which had made it awkward for him with his luggage to find a space. Thankfully, Bishop’s apartment building was by the same subway line that was near Clint’s place so he hadn’t had to switch trains. He’d spent the ride paranoid that the paper in his back pocket would fall out and a small part of him wishing that it would, as if losing it would erase everything that had happened that day.

There was no elevator but Clint was used to the three story walk-up. A familiar panting when he reached the second floor landing brought a small smile to his face.

“Hey, boy,” he said as the golden haired dog bounded up to him. He bent down and ruffled the dog behind his ears, his smile growing as the dog woofed in greeting. Kneeling on the floor, he buried his face in the dog’s fur, taking comfort in the simple embrace. “I’ve really messed up this time,” he whispered into the dog’s neck.

The dog’s tail thumped on the floor when Clint pulled away, his mouth stretched into a wide grin as he panted happily. Clint wrinkled his nose at the wave of doggy breath towards his face. “Go on, get out of here,” he said with one last scratch behind the dog’s ear.

The dog barked once and then continued on his way, heading down the stairs towards the first floor.

Clint climbed the last set of stairs to his apartment. It took a moment for him to juggle his bags while digging his keys out from his jeans but he managed. He felt a weight lift off of his shoulders when the door swung open, the familiar layout of his living room a welcome sight to his eyes. Dropping his bags in the entryway, he kicked the front door shut. Heading towards the couch, he reached his arms above his head, feeling the tension loosen in his back as the muscles stretched.

Sudden movement from the corner of his eye startled him. Whirling to his left, Clint saw a man standing there.

“What the hell are you doing in my kitchen?”


	22. Chapter 22

The man was facing away from Clint, reaching for the refrigerator door handle. His salt and pepper hair brushed his shoulders in loose waves, the strands tangled from having a hand run through them. His torso was bare, the muscles of his back well defined and tapering down to a trim waist. Worn ill-fitting khakis rode low on his hips. At Clint’s voice, the man paused and slowly turned his head to look sidelong at Clint. There was a coiled tension in his stance and an assessing glint in his eye that immediately put Clint on edge.

Then, between one blink and the next, the man’s entire demeanor shifted. Suddenly, he looked as tired and worn as his khakis. He turned fully to face Clint, lips quirked in a small self-deprecating smile.

“I was thinking about scrounging up something for dinner,” the man said, “but I fear your pantry is as threadbare as my own.”

“Clint, you're home!”

Clint turned to see his roommate gliding towards him, her steps dancer light and a silk robe wrapped around her frame as elegantly as an evening gown. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders in bed tousled waves and her full lips curved in a wide smile. She dropped a kiss onto his cheek, her familiar beta scent washing over him and instantly making him feel at home.

“I see you've met Bruce,” she said, perching on the edge of the kitchen table so that Clint could clearly see her lips. Her right hand flashed in a quick fingerspell of Bruce’s name, held in front of her so that it wasn’t visible to Bruce.

So this was the new boyfriend. “Not officially,” Clint said.

“Bruce Banner,” the man said. “And I know you're Clint, Natasha’s roommate. I've heard a lot about you.”

“Really?” Clint was surprised. Natasha wasn't overly chatty about any aspect of her life usually.

“Natasha hasn't stopped talking about how well you did at the World Archery Championships. She swears you're destined to take Gold at the Olympics,” Bruce said, his mouth widening into a friendly smile.

The lance of pain that went through Clint’s heart was startling in its intensity. He tried to say something in return but he couldn't form any words, a wave of hurt and anger sweeping over him. Without a word, he turned his back on them, heading to the living room and sitting down heavily on the sofa. He could hear Natasha and Bruce speaking in low voices behind him and he let it fade into background noise, leaning forward so that his elbows rested on his knees, his hands coming up to grip the sides of his head.

He felt Natasha settle on the sofa next to him. Leaning to one side so that for a brief moment, he was leaning into Natasha’s warmth, Clint reached for the folded paper in his pocket and handed it to her. She read it in silence and then her hand came up to rest on his shoulder, squeezing it in unspoken support. It broke something loose inside of him, something that had been clenched tight ever since he’d stepped foot in Bishop’s apartment. 

“I couldn’t - ” Clint’s voice broke halfway through the word. He turned to look at Natasha but his vision was blurred, unshed tears obscuring his view. He forced his next words out, needing her to understand. “He was in heat. I couldn’t let him go through that alone.”

“I know.” 

A startled exhale left his lungs at the two simple words, relief sweeping through him at her unquestionable acceptance.

Natasha shook the paper. “This is wrong,” she said fiercely. “Bishop had no right.” 

Clint sighed. “I signed the contract,” he said. “I can’t fight his lawyers.”

Her lips pressed together in a thin line but she didn’t dispute it. “Another sponsor then. One who isn’t a bigot.” She spat the last word as if it were a curse.

“Yeah, maybe.” Clint’s voice was dull. The events of the day had caught up to him and every part of him was weighed down with exhaustion, weariness settling over him like a cloak. His brain felt sluggish. He didn’t want to talk anymore. He just wanted the day to be over.

Clint rose from the couch, letting Natasha’s hand fall from his shoulder. “I’m tired. I’m going to go to bed.”

He saw a glimpse of her face before he left the living room. Her brow was furrowed slightly in worry but she didn’t say a word as he walked away.

Stopping by the front door to pick up his bags, he headed to his room. The hotel suite with its king sized pillow top mattress had been nice but his own bed was much more comforting in its familiarity. Stripping off his clothes and letting them fall to the floor, he slid between the cool sheets in just his boxers. Courtesy of the long summer days, sunlight still filtered through the curtains even though it was early evening, small motes of dust just visible in the fading orange light.

Clint wanted desperately to sleep but half an hour later, it still eluded him. His body refused to cooperate. Bishop’s words kept playing in his head.

_It means I take worthless trash like you and I turn it into gold._

_I should have known that an alpha wouldn’t be able to resist his base instincts._

_Well, you made your choice. You broke your contract. This is the consequence._

Clint’s hand balled into a fist so tight that his whole arm shook. The rage was white hot and blinding, welling from deep inside of him, born from countless disappointments. Rolling over, he slammed his fist into his pillow over and over, tiny grunts of anger and frustration escaping his clenched teeth with every hit.

How many times did this have to happen before he got the lesson? How many times did he have to have his hopes dashed before the message sank in?

It wasn’t until salt burst over his tongue that he realized tears were spilling down his cheeks. His body sagged and he clutched the pillow to his face, muffling the sobs. He felt like he was drowning, every emotion he pushed away for the past week crashing over him at once. Worry, hurt, anger, frustration, all tangled up so that he could barely distinguish one from the other. Pushing the pillow more firmly against his mouth, he howled at the onslaught of pain and disappointment.

The maelstrom didn’t last long. He was too worn out, too tired. As quickly as they started, the tears stopped. An ache at his temples heralded the start of a spectacular headache and his abs hurt from the cries that had wracked his frame. He rolled onto his back to stare at the blue ceiling, feeling drained and empty.

He’d painted the ceiling to mimic the sky but now another hue of blue came to mind. Clint closed his eyes and Phil’s face appeared. Not the last time he saw Phil, when his suit had been akin to armor, transforming him into someone remote and distant, but right after the turning point of Phil’s heat. His expression then had been open and soft, the want in his eyes apparent.

_I need you._

Even now, Clint’s cock stirred at the memory of those breathless words, Phil finally ceding control to him for the first time. It didn’t make his current situation any easier to bear but something inside him eased at the knowledge that at the very least, he’d done the right thing by Phil. Cleaving to the memory, he rolled to his side and pulled his pillow over his head, blocking out the fading sunlight and letting his exhaustion carry him to sleep.

*

Clint had been shooting for an hour when he saw the door open from the corner of his eye. It’d been long enough that there was a pleasant ache in his back and arms but his thoughts were still in turmoil, not yet quieted by the exercise. He let the bowstring fall slack, returning the arrow to his quiver.

“You’re here early.” The voice echoed slightly in the empty range.

“I couldn’t sleep.” Despite his exhaustion, he’d only been able to manage a few hours. Breakfast and wandering around the apartment had done nothing to calm his racing thoughts. There was only one thing guaranteed to bring him peace eventually so he’d headed to the range at first light.

“Come with me.” The tone brooked no argument.

Clint dutifully reset the lane, packing his used arrows into a separate part of his kit for inspection later. He slung his bow over his shoulder and followed the man through the range. The building was old but its structure was sound, the exposed brick walls giving it an industrial feel. The office was the smallest room in the building, all of the remaining space devoted to the separate archery and gun ranges as well as the locked storeroom for the equipment.

The leather office chair behind the metal desk had been repaired several times with duct tape, the silver dully gleaming in the overhead fluorescent lighting. Buck collapsed into it, the joints groaning under his bulk. The chair used to protest more loudly but Buck had lost weight over the years.

“I want you to know that I spent all day yesterday on the phone,” he said.

Clint took a seat in a simple metal folding chair colored a sickly olive green on the other side of the desk. “You did?”

“I knew that morality clause was a mistake but I couldn’t get the lawyers to take it out. Something about maintaining the Bishop brand or some such.” Buck sighed. “I thought Bishop just wanted you to keep a clean nose. I should have seen this coming.”

Clint knew he’d done the right thing but that didn’t stop the spike of shame in his gut. His actions had nullified the contract Buck worked so hard to secure for him. “Buck, I’m sorry.”

“What’ve you got to be sorry for? You can’t change your nature any more than I can change mine.” Buck leaned forward. “Now, you listen to me. I’m proud of you.”

“I qualified for the Olympics.” It was still unreal for Clint to say, that all the practice had actually gotten him to this moment. “But I can’t afford to compete now. You know that, Buck.”

“That doesn’t make me any less proud, son,” Buck said, his voice gruff with emotion. “And I’ll tell you something else, it’s not the only reason I’m proud of you.”

“Buck - ” Clint started to say.

Buck held up a hand, halting Clint’s words. “Now let me say my piece,” he said, brown eyes intent on Clint. “You could’ve let that omega suffer. And from what you told me, his heat wasn’t easy. But you saw him through it. You spared him the horrors of a jail cell.”

Clint couldn’t suppress a shudder at the thought of Phil in jail. There had never been any concrete proof but there were plenty of stories of what happened to omegas in heat who were arrested. Standard procedure was to keep the omega locked in a special isolation cell for their own safety. If the facilities were kind, the omega was provided with a knotting dildo for their comfort. But there were rumors of glitches in security cameras and guards missing from their posts when a heat driven omega entered one of those cells. Alphas in rut who were arrested didn’t fare much better.

“Bishop told me that I could have said no,” Clint said. He rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable at the very thought. “But I can’t imagine a situation where I would ever make that choice. Do you think betas will ever understand?”

Buck looked towards the ceiling and was silent for a long time. “I don’t know if they really can,” he finally said, meeting Clint’s gaze again. “I don’t know if they ever feel anything as all-consuming as a heat or a rut. But there are some who are willing to try.”

LIke Natasha. She’d completely ignored the ‘alphas only’ on his ad for a roommate and blown into his life like a breath of fresh air. He’d been so lonely before she came into his life and now he couldn’t imagine it without her.

“Maybe that’s all we can hope for,” Clint murmured. “Maybe things will change if enough of them are willing to try.”

Buck cleared his throat and motioned towards the door. “The range will be opening soon,” he said. “You’ve got kiddos to teach and I’ve got books to balance. Off with you.”


	23. Chapter 23

“You have a very impressive resume, Mr. Coulson.” Pepper Potts looked up from flipping through said document, her blue eyes pinning him with a piercing gaze. Her strawberry blonde hair was pulled back in a smooth bun and she was clad in a pristine white suit, every inch the CEO. “Army. CIA. What made you go into the private sector?”

“All that bureaucracy was giving me a headache,” Phil said. He made sure to come across as friendly but professional, knowing Pepper would appreciate a no-nonsense attitude. “Plus, with all the politics, I felt like I was no longer looking out for the little guy.”

Pepper raised her eyebrows, “And you think Tony Stark counts as one of the little guys?” she asked incredulously.

“I think Tony Stark’s genius may lead to one of the biggest advances in clean energy the world has ever seen,” Phil clarified. “And I think that that will help the little guy tremendously.”

He laced his fingers together in his lap. “It’s clear Stark has made some enemies with the former focus of Stark Industries,” he said. “We at SHIELD can offer you the best in security consultation. We can make sure Stark and all of your employees remain safe in your new ventures.”

“Nice speech.”

Phil turned his head to see Tony Stark himself leaning against the doorjamb. He was more dressed down than Phil had ever seen him in public, wearing a simple band T-shirt and jeans, but his beard was distinctive. HIs brown eyes danced with blatant curiosity. “Who’s your speechwriter? I need to fire mine.”

“No,” Pepper said, shaking her head, her face softening and lips curving into a small smile. “You need to actually stick to the script when you get on stage.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Tony said with a wide smile as he ambled into the room and leaned against her desk.

The warmth and affection between them was obvious. Pepper’s relationship with Tony was longstanding, first as his personal assistant and now as CEO of Stark Industries. There had been rumors for years of romance between them but it was unclear whether it was truth or just tabloid fodder. Looking between them, Phil wasn’t able to tell whether their relationship had crossed that line from friendship into something more. Pepper’s beta and Tony’s omega pheromones were both muted by erasers so there was no hint there. It was one of the things he would have to figure out if Fury’s suspicions proved to be true.

“Pep, we’ve talked about this,” Tony said. “Happy’s head of security and he’s doing a great job.”

“Tony,” Pepper said, her voice sharpening. “He doesn’t even know that I’ve been conducting interviews.”

There was a brief silence as they stared at each other. Then Tony’s body sagged slightly. “Point,” he said. He turned to look at Phil again, his gaze considering. “So you think Coulson here is the man for the job?”

Pepper tilted her head, her expression curious. “What makes you say that?”

Tony pointed to his forehead. “You don’t have that wrinkle between your eyebrows like you did with all the others.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Stark,” Pepper said with mock outrage, “but I don’t have wrinkles.”

Tony responded with equally false contrition. “Of course not, Ms. Potts.” He lowered his voice. “She does and it’s cute,” he said to Phil with a conspiratorial wink.

Phil allowed himself a small smile at their banter, making sure to maintain his professional demeanor. “So I have the job?” he asked, looking between them.

Pepper rose from her chair, prompting Phil to follow suit. She extended her hand. “Welcome to Stark Industries, Mr. Coulson.”

Phil grasped her hand in a firm handshake. “I have the feeling we’re going to be working closely together,” he said with a genuine smile. “Please call me Phil.”

Pepper inclined her head. “And you may call me Pepper.”

“And what am I, chopped liver?” Tony asked, the smile on his face showing he had no ill will. “Isn’t it my name on the building?”

Phil looked at Tony. “Something tells me Pepper was in charge long before she was named CEO,” Phil said.

“Oh, I like you, Phil,” Pepper said with a laugh as Tony sputtered next to them.

*

“We’re in,” Phil said to his assembled team.

They had set up operations at the Playground, the affectionate name for the building they used when they stayed near New York City. The Bus was parked in an adjacent airfield, ready to go on a moment’s notice for a mission, but it was nicer to stay in the ample accommodations the Playground provided, including bedrooms instead of bunks. Besides, it benefited them to have a physical address to direct potential clients.

“Daisy, I’ll need you to assess the current security surrounding Stark,” Phil said, “We need to know where the weak spots are.”

Daisy rubbed her hands together with glee. “Oh, I’ve been looking forward to this.”

“Stark said that he’ll be granting you access tomorrow,” Phil said, glancing at the notes he took.

Daisy looked even more delighted. “A ticking clock,” she said. “Even better.”

Phil looked up at her with a frown. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a challenge,” Daisy explained. “Stark could have granted me access today if he wanted. He wants to see how good I am. And the best way to assess his security - ”

“ - is to hack into it,” Phil said, finishing the thought. “All right, Daisy. Go nuts.”

“With pleasure,” she said with an almost manic grin. Her hands briefly hovered over the keyboard of her laptop, already raring to go, before she deliberately folded them into her lap, restraining herself until the end of the mission brief. 

Phil had to suppress his own smile at the excitement in her eyes. Daisy had been a great find when SHIELD was just starting out. She’d hacked into a security system they'd set up on one of their civilian consultant jobs, one that Fitz had crowed about for days as some of his best work to date. They'd traced her to a van sitting in an alley and siphoning free Wi-Fi from a nearby coffee shop. To add insult to injury, she’d done it on a laptop she’d won in a poker game. Phil had offered her a job on the spot as a consultant. Less than a week later, she’d proven to be invaluable on one of their government missions and had become a permanent part of the team.

“Bobbi, I’d like you to compile personality profiles for the current Stark security personnel,” Phil continued. “Their files will be sent over digitally. Fill in any gaps.”

Bobbi nodded in response. Once again, she failed to meet Phil’s gaze and Phil clenched his jaw in irritation. He’d tried to give Bobbi enough time to adjust, not wanting to lose a good agent, but this had gone on long enough. It was time to find out whether she could continue to work with him, having been confronted with the reality of his omega designation.

“Before you do, I want to see you in my office.”

May cut her eyes towards him at the sharp note in his voice. Bobbi crossed her arms and nodded again, her gaze fixed on the wall behind Phil. Mack took a step closer to her, causing Hunter to scowl ferociously.

Phil ignored them, moving on to the next point he wanted to make. “May, while I’m on this mission, you’ll be Acting Director of SHIELD.”

May’s lips pressed together but she didn’t say a word. A week had passed since Copenhagen and they still hadn’t talked. Phil’s time had been taken up with preparations for infiltrating Stark Industries and to be honest, he hadn't pushed the matter. The time was coming soon when they would have to; he needed to read her in on a few things.

Hunter spoke up. “And how long exactly will you be on this mission?”

Phil leveled his gaze at him. “For as long as it takes.”

“Is no one else concerned that we’re sending in the boss with pretty much no backup?” Hunter looked around the room. “Am I seriously the only one?”

“No,” Jemma said, an extra layer of meaning in her voice that Phil hoped only he could hear, “you’re not the only one.”

Phil narrowed his eyes, the spark of irritation fanning into a flicker of anger. “You want to tell me what you mean by that?”

“I'm just saying, maybe now’s not the best time for you to be doing deep undercover,” Hunter said with a shrug.

“Hunter,” Mack said with a shake of his head, a warning note in his voice.

“Oh come on,” Hunter said, “are we really not going to deal with the elephant in the room? We all heard Jemma say no chemicals for six weeks.” He looked around. Everyone studiously avoided his gaze, Daisy biting her lip. 

Hunter let out a huge sigh before he turned to face Phil again. “You’re going to have to face Tony Stark every morning,” he paused for dramatic effect, “without coffee.”

There was a brief silence. Phil felt the blood drain from his face, anger snuffed out by horror.

Fitz pressed a finger to his lips before pointing at Hunter. “The man’s got a point,” he said.

“Damn,” Mack said, crossing his arms. “I didn’t think about that.”

Daisy shook her head. “Will either of them survive the week?”

May stepped forward. “Coulson knows how to handle himself in the field,” she said, looking around the room. “Besides, as long as SHIELD is standing, he’ll never be without backup. Is that understood?”

Hunter only looked partially mollified but everyone else nodded in agreement.

“The rest of you know what to do,” Phil said, pushing the unsettling thought of dealing with Stark without coffee from his mind. “Dismissed.”

Jemma’s gaze had been glued to him throughout the debriefing and she stepped forward as soon as Phil finished speaking. “Sir,” she said in a low voice. “I need to speak with you.” Her brown eyes were wide and intent on his, leaving no doubt in his mind as to what she wanted to speak about.

Phil swallowed his unease, not wanting to have the conversation but knowing it was necessary. “Fine.”

He followed her to the lab. Jemma made sure that the area was clear before speaking. “Sir, I don’t know if you’ve made a decision,” she said gently, “but enough time has passed that I can run the test now.”

Phil leaned against one of the lab tables, feeling it dig into his palms as he gripped the edge. This was it. He’d already made his choice, for better or for worse. Now was the time to find out the outcome. “Do it.”

It only took a couple of minutes for Jemma to extract the necessary blood. She placed a band-aid over the small wound.

“The results should be ready in less than an hour. I’ll send them directly to your tablet for your eyes only.” She hesitated a moment. “I’m here for you, sir,” she said, “whatever you decide.”

“Jemma,” Phil said, his thumb pressing against the band-aid on his arm. There were too many emotions going through him and not enough time to sort through them all but he knew what he needed to say. “Thank you.”

She gave him a small smile.

Phil rolled down his sleeve before stepping out into the hallway. He caught sight of Bobbi at the junction, talking to Mack again. Steeling his resolve, he called out to her. “Bobbi,” he said, pitching his voice to carry across the distance between them. “With me.”

They both glanced over in his direction. Mack reached out and gently squeezed Bobbi’s arm, saying something to her that was too soft for Phil to hear. She briefly clasped his hand on top of her arm before turning to follow Phil to his office.

There was silence between them as they walked the hallways. As far as he'd been able to tell, Bobbi hadn't spoken to anyone but Mack. Aside from her relationship with Hunter, she'd known Mack the longest. Perhaps she hadn't felt comfortable discussing it with anyone else, a fact that Phil was grateful for now, but that meant a similar conversation with Mack was probably in his future. He didn't want to lose anyone from his team but he knew all too well that letting this issue fester would make things worse in the long run.

“Agent Morse,” Phil said after they took their seats, the office door shut behind them for privacy. “Do we have a problem?”

Bobbi’s throat worked once, her eyes fixed on the wall just to the left of Phil. “No, sir.”

Phil laced his fingers on top of the table, striving to remain calm. “I’ve personally vetted every single member of this team,” he began. “I think we’ve worked well together these past few years.” He paused for a moment, dreading his next words. “It’s clear the last mission has changed your opinion of me. If you can no longer work with me because I’m an omega, I’m afraid you’ll have to go.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last six months have been pretty terrible for me in real life. Thank you to all of you who put up with my erratic posting schedule and leave kudos and comments. I sincerely treasure every single one.
> 
>  **Warning** :This is a slightly longer chapter that discusses the topic of abortion and specifically the idea of getting an abortion without telling the other partner involved. I understand that this is a thorny subject and no moral judgment about making that kind of decision is present in this chapter. However, please be aware of your own triggers and proceed accordingly. Do note that Phil will not get an abortion at any point in this story.

At that, Bobbi’s gaze flew to meet his for the first time in days, eyes wide. “Sir,” she said, “that’s not - ” She took a deep breath and started over. “Your omega designation has never been an issue for me. Please don’t think that.”

Phil didn’t change his expression. This wasn’t the first time that he’d had an agent claim that they had no problem with working with omegas only for it all to come to a head weeks or months later. In the worst instances, the showdown happened in the middle of a mission, so this was something he needed to resolve right now. “Something’s obviously been bothering you though,” he pressed. “Something to do with me. You wanna tell me what that is?”

Bobbi’s gaze fell to her lap. It was more than a little disconcerting to see her so uncertain. Phil had been impressed by her self-assurance from the first moment they’d met. It was why he'd picked her for this team, why he trusted her to act on her own in the field, knowing that her instincts usually held true. For the first time, Phil began to doubt the reason behind her avoidance of him the past few weeks.

She visibly steeled herself before flicking her gaze upwards to look directly at Phil again. He had to fight not to react, startled by the depth of emotion in her eyes. 

“There was a time when I thought about quitting,” Bobbi said. “As exciting as being a spy was, as much as I loved it, I thought maybe I should think about trying out another adventure.” She paused. “But I didn’t start thinking that way until I took a pregnancy test.”

Phil stilled. He’d thought Bobbi’s unease around him was because she’d seen him in the middle of heat. This sounded like something else entirely.

“Bobbi, you don’t have to - ” he started to say.

“No, wait,” Bobbi said, interrupting him. “I didn’t mean to make you think I had a problem with you being an omega. I know I’ve been acting differently around you since the end of the mission. I’d like to tell you why, if you don’t mind.”

Phil leaned back in his chair. Embarrassment and guilt over his quick judgment and bad temper warred within him. He already had a good idea of what she was going to say and knew that her earlier assertion had been right; her behavior didn’t have anything to do with having a problem with his omega designation. But he’d also seen that earnest look on agents’ faces before; Bobbi wanted to get this off her chest. In light of that, he nodded, indicating that she should go ahead.

“The next time I saw Hunter,” Bobbi said, “we got into a huge fight. One of our worst ones. How on earth could we raise a kid when we were fighting like cats and dogs? And the thought of raising a kid on my own?” She shook her head, a tiny jerk that barely stirred her honey blonde tresses. “I just couldn’t do it. I wasn’t ready.”

Phil knew exactly what her next words were going to be but he waited, letting her tell her own story in her own time. 

There was sorrow in her eyes, aged by time but still present. Yet, her expression was resolute and her tone was firm as she said, “So I had an abortion.”

Phil didn't know what to say. He didn't even know if he should say anything. To his relief, Bobbi continued speaking before he could begin to think of what could possibly be a suitable response.

“I admit, it’s been difficult for me to be reminded of that time and I guess it showed.” She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, meeting his gaze head on. “Sir, I want you to know I would never have let it interfere with a mission.”

Phil immediately shook his head, words finally springing to his lips. “I was out of line,” he said, pressing a splayed hand against his own chest. “You’ve been nothing but professional. It was wrong for me to think otherwise.” He leaned forward, putting the full amount of his sincerity in his eyes and voice. “I am sorry.”

Bobbi pressed her lips together and nodded, accepting the apology. She stood up to leave but paused by the door, turning to look at him over her shoulder. “I don’t regret what I did,” she said. “But not everyone would make the same choice.”

He studied her for a moment. Bobbi was a master at deflection and half-truths. He had no doubt that she could have come up with something believable to tell him while keeping this secret to herself but she’d made a conscious choice to tell him the truth instead. 

“Mack knows. But you haven't told Hunter,” Phil said, coming to the obvious conclusion based on their recent behavior. Bobbi inclined her head in acknowledgement. “Why did you tell me?”

“Mack’s been great. Supportive. I don’t know what I would have done without him,” Bobbi replied. “He’s had his own experience that makes him sympathetic.” 

Her lips quirked upwards in a humorless smile and she shook her head. “But he’ll never really understand that kind of choice.” Her hand curled into a fist that she gently knocked against the doorframe before leaving the office, closing the door behind her.

Phil blew out a breath once he was alone. His unexpected heat was affecting him more than he’d first realized. He’d always been able to rely on his instincts before but they had definitely steered him wrong this time. He’d let his emotions get the best of him and had responded to Bobbi’s change in behavior with a knee-jerk reaction. He should have contemplated the possibility of another reason for her distance. A few weeks ago, he would have, no question. 

“Knock, knock.” Phil raised his eyes to see Hunter at the door, poking his head through the now open doorway.

“Hunter,” Phil said, quickly pulling himself together. “Did you need something?”

“I’ll be quick,” he said, moving further into the room and closing the door behind him. “I’ve been suckered into doing inventory again. I swear Mack is cheating on poker night.”

“What is it?”

Hunter’s expression grew serious and when he spoke, it was in clipped tones. Phil was reminded of the fact that Hunter was not only a military man but also a hardened mercenary. “Bob’s a good agent. She won’t let you down,” Hunter said, crossing his arms. “This situation is rough for her but she'll pull through. She always does. Just take it easy on her for a bit, yeah?”

There was something about Hunter's words that pinged Phil’s radar. He normally prided himself on being able to read people well; even though he had utterly failed with Bobbi earlier, he peered more closely at Hunter. Behind the tough guy facade, old grief shadowed Hunter’s eyes and there was an invisible weight that drew down his shoulders.

Hunter knew about the abortion.

Even though he was curious, Phil didn’t ask the questions that crowded his mind. It was clear Hunter had known for some time and just as clear that he and Bobbi had never spoken of it. It wasn't his place to ask of them anything more than they were willing to say.

Recognition of the fact that they both knew flashed in Hunter’s eyes. The humorless smile that curved his lips upwards was a perfect match for the one Bobbi had had earlier. “Me and Bob have a complicated relationship,” he said dryly in response to Phil’s unasked questions. “She knows I know. But she'll tell me when she's ready.”

Phil nodded. “Understood.”

Hunter’s brows drew together and Phil was surprised to see concern in his eyes.

“Look, boss,” Hunter said. “Take care of yourself, yeah?” He hesitated, momentarily indecisive about his next words, before forging ahead. 

“And know that we're here for you.” Phil felt his body grow still. “Whatever you decide to do, we've got your back. If I had known back then,” Hunter said, shaking his head, “Bobs would never have been alone.”

“You're dismissed.”

The words snapped in the air between them, tension springing forth where once there had been mutual understanding. Phil clenched his jaw, feeling the simmering anger that accompanied him almost constantly these days flare. He knew what Hunter was trying to offer, knew that he had only the best of intentions, but it was too much. Too much to hear verbal confirmation that his team suspected. Too much to think that they could be discussing it behind his back. Rationally, he knew his team was smart enough to come to the obvious conclusion of the cause of his bad mood for the past two weeks but it was too much like his early days in the CIA, when whispers and gossip had trailed after him as he rose through the ranks. This was his team. He was their leader. Things were supposed to be different.

Hunter’s spine stiffened, his body unconsciously coming to attention from his ingrained military training, with the knowledge that he'd somehow overstepped. “Yes, sir,” he said, no trace of mockery in his voice, and immediately headed towards the door, smartly shutting it behind him.

Phil’s hand curled into a fist on top of his desk, anger still blazing through his veins. He wanted to rail and curse and punch his feelings away but he knew there was no point. He couldn't blame anyone else for his own actions. He created this mess and now he had to deal with it.

A soft beep came from the tablet, drawing his attention. There was an alert waiting when he tapped the screen, letting him know that there was a new message in his inbox.

Phil dismissed the alert. For a second, his finger hovered over the icon for his inbox, a small envelope with the number 1 attached, but then he swiftly put the tablet back to sleep instead. Snatching up his personal cell phone, he quickly punched in a number and clenched his jaw as he waited for the call to connect.

“We need to talk.”

*

Phil’s knuckles had barely brushed the wood of the door when it was jerked open. Wide, brown eyes stared at him, fear and panic obvious in the expression of the man standing on the other side.

“Is it Melinda? Is she okay?”

Phil immediately reached out to grasp the man’s shoulder. “May’s fine,” he said in a reassuring tone, squeezing his hand for extra measure. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you, Andrew.”

The man’s shoulders slumped. “Jesus, Phil,” Andrew said, clearly relieved. “I swear, you took ten years off my life, calling me like that.” He gestured with his head towards the interior of the house. “Come on in.”

Phil followed Andrew Garner, ex-husband of Melinda May, inside. It was a different house than the one Andrew had shared with May during their marriage. That had been a three bedroom, two and a half bathroom home with an acre of neatly mowed lawn. It had been a house meant for a family or at least for a couple hoping to start one.

This house was smaller: only two bedrooms and one and a half bathrooms. Phil knew that the second bedroom housed Andrew’s study. The decor was tasteful and fit Andrew’s personality but it was also impersonal, the obvious influence of a hired interior decorator. It was a stark contrast to the welcoming clutter of the home he’d shared with May, filled with the personal knick-knacks they’d gathered over the years.

Andrew led the way to the kitchen. “Coffee?” he asked, holding up a half empty carafe.

Phil felt the muscle jump in his jaw before he could stop it. “No.”

Andrew frowned and put the carafe back without pouring himself a cup. “Never known you to turn down a cup of coffee,” he said slowly, leaning back against the counter and peering into Phil’s eyes. He crossed his arms. Andrew was dressed in the kind of outfit he favored for his academic classes, dress slacks and a button down, although he’d discarded his sports jacket. Sunlight streaming through the kitchen window glinted off of the dark skin of his forearms, bared by the rolled up sleeves of his dress shirt. “What’s going on?”

Phil used one hand to unbutton his suit jacket with a flick of his wrist. He sat down on the bar stool set at the kitchen island, leaning forward on his elbows. “I needed to talk to you. Confidentially.”

In the early days of SHIELD, Andrew had signed an ironclad non-disclosure agreement. With the addition of his professional oath to maintain doctor-patient confidentiality, it made Phil feel comfortable about coming to him now, even though it had been years since they’d talked in person.

“Yeah, that part I got.” Andrew tilted his head after a few minutes of silence and raised his eyebrows. “Talking usually involves more words than this.”

Phil blew out a long breath and scrubbed his hands over his face in frustration. “I went into heat. Unexpectedly,” he added.

“You’re irregular?”

“No,” Phil said, dropping his hands away from his face. “I’ve been taking experimental suppressants designed to suppress my heats and scent.”

“What?” Andrew’s expression displayed obvious shock before he was able to school it.

“You know how hard it is for alphas and omegas to advance in non-traditional fields,” Phil said, unable to keep the defensive note out of his voice. “If there was a way to take ruts and heats out of the picture, maybe things would change.”

“Maybe.” Andrew’s voice and expression were completely neutral now, giving nothing of his inner thoughts away. “People have thought that way before.”

“Look, I do want our conversation to remain confidential but can you drop the therapist persona? I came here to talk to you as a friend.” Phil swallowed, still mildly uncomfortable about discussing his designation even though that’s exactly why he was there. “Omega to omega.”

Andrew nodded, expression turning pensive. He took a seat on the other side of the kitchen island and folded his hands together. “History has shown that assimilation does not change people’s minds.” He let out a tired sigh. “Hiding the fact that we’re omegas will not change the fact that we are. We aren’t like betas. We have different instincts, different drives, and that’s not a bad thing. Betas just need to realize that.”

Phil felt that old anger flare again. “This heat ruined my mission,” he shot back. “I had to get someone else to step in. I couldn’t do my job!”

Andrew’s gaze didn’t waver. “And if you were a beta, it could have been an illness or an injury that would have resulted in the same outcome.”

Phil gritted his teeth, unable to refute the logic.

Andrew looked at Phil for a moment. “This is an old argument,” he said. He was right; they’d had the same conversation in many different iterations over the years. Phil was uncomfortably aware that he was skirting the actual issue. “Why are you really here?”

“I wasn’t supposed to have a heat. The suppressants failed.” Andrew waited patiently for him to continue. Phil forced himself to say the words, even though they stuck in his throat. “An alpha helped me through it.”

“I take it that it wasn’t someone you knew,” Andrew said. Phil felt a flash of gratitude that Andrew knew him well enough to put the pieces together without him spelling everything out. “Phil, you’re a private person. That must not have been easy.”

Andrew was falling back into the the therapist speak but this time, it made it easier for Phil to spill the whole story. “We were on a plane. He went into rut first and I couldn’t - ” Phil swallowed and pushed away the memory of the feelings that went through him of seeing Clint being dragged to the respite room. “I couldn’t handle the thought of him going through that alone. I offered myself, thinking that it would be over by the time we landed.”

“But he triggered your heat,” Andrew said with sympathetic understanding, “and you’re worried about what it means that you were so compatible.”

Phil felt an overwhelming sense of relief when Andrew put into words the emotions he’d been carrying around ever since his heat ended. Still, the implication was galling. “I don’t need an alpha,” he said, curling his hands into fists. “I don’t.”

Andrew’s eyes were warm and his voice gentle as he said, “That doesn’t stop you from wanting one.”

The words hit him like a physical blow to the gut. It was the very thing he’d spent his career protesting and yet, deep down, he couldn’t deny the truth of the statement. Andrew must have seen his distress because he hurriedly added, “Wanting a partner to share your life is not a bad thing, Phil.”

“I made a choice to be an agent,” Phil insisted. “That’s who I am. That’s my life.”

“And you of all people should know that life can throw you a curveball. Sometimes you have to make new choices.”

“I don’t want this!” The words burst out of Phil, emotions twisting his insides. “I don’t want this choice again! I made the decision to become an agent and I gave all that up. The partner, the picket fence, the two and a half kids - ” His voice broke on the last word and Phil was horrified to find himself holding back a sob. He pressed his lips together and lowered his head, cursing the wetness that gathered beneath his eyelids.

“You said your suppressants failed,” Andrew said slowly. “Did you use condoms?” Phil managed to shake his head but didn’t look up, trying his best to pull himself together. Andrew sucked in a breath. “Phil, are you - ?”

Phil cut him off before he could finish the question. “I don’t know,” he said. Despite his best efforts, his voice was still thick with emotion. “I couldn’t bring myself to check the results.”

Andrew didn’t say anything else but his hands covered Phil’s, lending his silent support. Phil clung to them, keeping his gaze trained on the brown skin as he fought back tears, not wanting to meet Andrew’s gaze. He knew he was being selfish in coming to Andrew with his problem but the truth was that he felt like he didn’t have anyone else. Andrew was the only male omega he knew, the only one who could fully understand the situation he was in. Still, Phil felt guilt churn in his gut; he knew all too well that this was a sore subject for Andrew and the feeling was too much after his roller coaster of a day. He needed to regroup on his own.

“I have to go,” Phil said abruptly. “I have a mission to prepare for.”

“Hey.” For the first time, Andrew sounded concerned. “You’re dealing with a lot. A mission might not be the best thing right now.”

“I’m the best agent for this mission,” Phil said, avoiding meeting Andrew’s gaze as he pulled away from his grasp and stood up. “I’m not going to shirk my duty.” He buttoned his suit jacket and turned on his heel, heading towards the front door.

“If you’re pregnant,” Phil stopped short, the last word going through him like an electric shock, but didn’t turn around, “then you have a new duty.”

Phil’s reply was harsh, even to his own ears. “Or a choice to make.”


	25. Chapter 25

Daisy stumbled into the eating area with her laptop in hand, bleary eyed and long hair disheveled. After depositing it on the table, she made a beeline towards the coffeemaker. Phil, in the middle of wishing the hot water with honey and lemon that Jemma had allowed him to have would spontaneously turn into a cup of coffee, watched enviously as she filled a huge travel mug from the carafe.

“Did you get any sleep?” he asked.

Daisy tipped her head back and took a long swallow from the travel mug. Phil couldn’t tear his eyes away from the gleam of its metallic surface, recalling the way that first burst of bitterness along his tongue immediately got his synapses firing in the morning. Lowering it, Daisy let out a prolonged satisfied sigh, slumping back against the kitchen counter. Phil’s fingers spasmed on the handle of his own mug at the look of contentment on her face. Taking a sip of his beverage, he hid a grimace at the sour taste of the lemon and tried not to hate his life.

“Not a wink,” she said, sounding altogether too pleased about it.

Phil frowned. “Shouldn’t Stark have given you access by now? Do I need to speak with him?”

Daisy opened her mouth but a voice from her laptop piped up first. “Aren’t you done getting coffee yet? Rookie mistake to have the coffee pot in a different room than where you’re working.”

Phil deliberately put his mug down on the table because he felt a sudden urge to throw it against the wall. “Daisy,” he said, taking in her suddenly nervous expression, “please tell me that’s not Stark.”

“That’s not Stark,” she immediately said.

“Daisy.”

“I disabled the webcam on my laptop,” she hurried to say. “Audio only and he’s currently muted so he can’t hear us.”

“And yet,” Phil said, keeping his voice even, “you brought your laptop into a common area where there is the potential for him to overhear sensitive information if it did happen to become unmuted.”

Daisy grimaced. “Right,” she said. “Sorry, I know I should be by now but I’m still not used to the whole secret agent thing.”

Her saving grace was that at this early hour, the eating area was deserted except for the two of them. In for a penny, in for a pound then. Phil pulled her laptop towards him and unmuted it.

“Stark, care to explain why you haven’t granted security access to SHIELD yet?”

“Hey, Coulson!” Phil didn’t bother to contain his grimace this time; Stark’s tone was far too cheery for this time of morning. “Aw, don’t ruin our fun.”

“Stark, you hired us to do a job - ”

“And you’re doing it,” Tony interrupted. “It looks I’ve been out of the game for too long because Daisy has some hacker tricks up her sleeve that I never would have considered.” Phil glanced up to see a mixture of pride and guilt on Daisy’s face. “Tightening my security against her has been a definite challenge.”

Phil tapped a finger against his mug. Letting Daisy continue to hack Stark’s security delayed their full assessment of it. Yet, allowing it to continue would still result in improving the system while building rapport with the man himself. If he played this right, this could advance both objectives of the Stark mission.

“Fine,” Phil said, coming to a decision, “if you give us something in return.”

“Oh?” Tony’s tone was wary. “‘Cause last time I checked, I was giving you money.” 

“I’ve never known a security system to give Daisy this much trouble,” Phil said, watching her carefully. “I’d like you to walk her through your security protocols when you’re done comparing street cred or whatever it is the two of you are doing. We could use them on future contracts.”

“Deal,” Tony said, sounding pleased. Daisy’s face lit up with a blinding smile. “You ready, Daisy?”

“Please, I was born ready,” she shot back. “Thank you,” she mouthed to Phil before scooping up her laptop and heading back out of the room.

Phil started to raise his mug but then immediately set it down again, unable to stomach another sip. Jemma had just been trying to help but sticking to the routine of drinking a hot beverage in the morning was not the same as having actual coffee. After pouring the rest of it into the sink, he headed towards his office, reviewing the Stark mission in his head.

The primary objective was to determine whether Stark was behind the kidnappings or a potential victim. The single-mindedness he’d displayed during the shut-down of Stark Industries’ weapons division and the recall of all of Stark weaponry had been matched only by the enthusiasm he’d previously had for weapon design. He had the potent mixture of an addictive personality, shameful remorse, and self-righteous indignation to think that vigilantism was a viable option. On the other hand, if he wasn’t the one behind the kidnappings, he was a prime target and they could use that in order to figure who the real culprit was.

Infiltrating Stark’s security was key. It allowed them the greatest flexibility in terms of surveillance and simultaneously gave Phil an excuse to poke around Stark Tower, looking for security holes. The secondary objective, determining whether Stark was indeed displaying nesting behavior, could possibly be one of those security holes. If Stark was emotionally close enough to someone to start displaying that kind of behavior, then that person could be used for leverage against Stark if he was kidnapped again. 

There were too many what-if’s at the moment for Phil’s liking but then that was usually the case in missions like these; otherwise, there would be no need for someone to go in undercover. The bottom line was that they couldn’t afford to lose Stark to the underworld through vigilantism or abduction: his knowledge of weaponry and genius for inventiveness would be devastating.

Phil reached his office and opened the door, only to find May standing inside at parade rest. “May,” he said, senses on high alert as he crossed over the threshold. She was giving nothing away in her expression but he had the distinct feeling that their conversation was not going to be a pleasant one.

“Coulson,” she replied. She inclined her head, gaze stern. “I can’t let you go on this mission.”

Betrayal lanced through Phil, sharp and bitter, as the door closed behind him with a soft snick. May had never questioned his ability to go in the field before, not even when he was injured. She’d always told him that she trusted his judgment about his own capabilities. 

“Radio silence for days,” Phil said slowly, “and this is what you lead with?”

“I’ve held my tongue long enough,” May replied. “You can’t go on a mission like this and you know it.”

“A little late for that now,” Phil said, struggling to keep his voice even as anger began simmering in his veins. His mind worked furiously to try to figure out May’s angle, why she was suddenly against him going out into the field, but he kept coming back to the same thing. After all, it was the one thing in his life guaranteed to make people look at him differently and May had had a front row seat to his humiliation. “I’ve already laid the groundwork with Stark and Potts.”

“I understand why Fury wants you to go in,” May said, clearly not backing down, “but another agent could complete this mission. It is primarily recon, after all.”

This time, Phil couldn’t prevent the anger from seeping into his voice. “So I have my first heat in three years and suddenly I’m incapable of completing a simple recon mission?” he demanded. “You know, Fury told me about the report you submitted to him, listing all of my deficiencies during the Copenhagen mission. Have you been deliberately undermining me?”

May dropped from the parade rest and her battle ready stance only made his blood boil. “I was hoping your visit with Andrew would solve the problem,” she said, voice tight, “and that I wouldn’t have to resort to this.”

Phil curled his fists. “You followed me?”

“Of course I did,” May said through clenched teeth. “I always have your back.”

“This?” Phil flung an arm out. “This is what you call having my back?”

“Yes!” May shouted. She took a step forward, gaze sharp. “Ever since the Copenhagen mission, you’ve been irritable and distrustful. You snap at anyone who expresses the slightest bit of support. Your paranoia almost cost you a good agent. And all because you can’t handle the truth of what happened on that plane.”

“Enlighten me then, May,” Phil said, taking his own step forward. Underneath the blood roaring in his ears, there was a distant sense of dread taking shape, but he couldn’t stop the words from spilling out, already too far gone in his anger. “What am I missing?”

May narrowed her eyes. “For the first time in a long time, you regretted the decision you made in choosing to be a field agent over having a family,” she said. “So you saw Barton and you made a calculated choice.”

“And what choice was that?” Phil shouted, just as the dread finally made itself known through the anger, a too late warning that he wasn’t prepared for what was going to happen next. 

“To pretend, for a little while, that you could have both.”

Phil’s breath caught, feeling the world suddenly tilt sideways. It was if she’d reached inside and pulled out his heart, his private desire laid bare between them, leaving an aching, raw hole in its wake. It hurt to breathe but he forced himself to do it, pulling in a shaky gasp of air. 

_I listened. And there was one sound I didn’t hear at all. A condom wrapper._

_You planted a tracker on Barton before you left the plane. You waited until the last possible moment to let your team know about your predicament, until you were so far gone you were almost in the black. There was no time for them to even attempt an extraction because you were closer to him than they were to you._

_Who initiated contact on the plane? You or Barton?_

_Wanting a partner to share your life is not a bad thing, Phil._

That old familiar anger gave way to an even older pain, a throbbing ache whose intensity had not been lessened by time.

It was supposed to be a milk run. He and Garrett had been engaging in their usual banter over the comms as they waited for the next phase of the mission, their fellow teammates occasionally throwing in the odd comment or telling them to stop flirting and focus.

And then, in a split second, the situation had gone completely FUBAR. One agent dead and another struggling to hold on. The rest of them had barely made it out. During debrief, it had been determined to be a fault of incomplete intelligence and they had been commended for their quick thinking in a tough situation. Yet, Phil hadn’t been able to shake off the guilt. If he had been paying closer attention instead of mouthing off on the comms, maybe he would have seen something or could have done something that would have prevented Agent Calabrese’s death.

He had sought solace in Garrett’s arms, allowing their shared passion to turn off his brain for just a little while. But when he’d let himself out of Garrett’s bunk, Agent Pitts had been waiting for him. Phil had been frozen by the hatred in her eyes, enough so that he didn’t move an inch as she unloaded on him. She and Agent Calabrese had been thick as thieves, the two female betas spending every spare moment together, and the grief of Pitts’ loss had been present in every syllable of her hissed diatribe.

_Omegas are all alike. I bet you would throw away a mission at the chance to pant on someone’s knot._

Phil could feel himself shaking as the memory assaulted him. Distantly, he felt May curl her hand around his bicep and guide him over to his desk chair before gently pushing him down into it.

“She was right,” Phil said dully. “She was right all along. I saw Clint and I stopped thinking about the mission entirely. All I could think about were my own selfish needs.” 

“Hey!” May’s voice was sharp, drawing his attention away from his spiraling thoughts. “I said that you made a calculated choice. You’ve been on suppressants for three years with no heat. You’ve been around alphas in rut without a heat being triggered. There was no reason for you to think that this time would be different.”

Phil shook his head. “The mission should have come first,” he said. “I’m supposed to be an agent.” 

She laid her hand on his forearm, squeezing it in a comforting, firm grip. “We’re a little too much alike, you and I,” May said. “You’ve been denying yourself for a long time, focusing entirely on the job. At some point, the dam was going to break.”

“Because I’m an omega,” Phil said bitterly, “a slave to my biological instincts.”

“Because you’re human,” May countered firmly, “and I don’t think we’re meant to be alone.” She pressed her lips together. “Do you remember Bahrain?”

They’d gone in to covertly assess a potential threat and their team had been attacked by a local street gang, more heavily armed than they should have been. It had been madness, everyone fighting to stay alive, and when the smoke cleared, Phil’s heart had stopped when he saw May down, blood seeping from a bullet wound in her gut. After evac, she’d been immediately rushed to emergency surgery but had remained in the hospital for weeks afterwards because of complications. Phil had been the one to deliver the news to Andrew and to wait by his side throughout May’s recovery.

“Of course I do,” Phil said, placing his hand over hers as he remembered those anxious days waiting for her to wake up. “It was the worst day of my life.”

“I don’t want to see you make the same mistakes I did,” May said. “After that mission, I pushed everyone away, even Andrew, when I needed them the most. You gave me a second chance with SHIELD and I intend to repay the favor.”

Phil squeezed her hand, grateful beyond words that she stood by his side. “I just don’t know what to do,” he admitted. “I plan everything and right now, I have no idea what to do.”

“You don’t know what to do because you don’t have intel. You can’t move forward unless you do,” May said. She gestured towards the tablet with her head. “Are you going to keep ignoring it or are you going to face the truth?”

Phil untangled his hands from May’s and reached for the tablet. He stared at the envelope icon and the small number 1 in its corner. She was right. It was time for him to stop lashing out at those around him just because he was hurting. He couldn’t move forward unless he faced the fears of his past. 

“Will you stay?” he asked without looking up. He knew that this was the right thing to do but it was still hard for him to take that last step, fear stilling his hand.

“Of course,” May said immediately. “Whatever that test says, I’m here for you. And Phil?” He looked up and the gentleness in her eyes almost undid him. “No matter what, we’ll deal with this together.”

Phil nodded and hardened his resolve. Taking a deep breath, he tapped the envelope icon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's time we get these two crazy kids back together, don't you? ;)


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for the kudos and comments! I am having so much fun writing this monster of a story and am humbled that so many of you are following along.

Clint shrugged his shoulders, uncomfortable with the way the suit jacket restricted the range of motion of his arms. The salesperson had assured him that it was the proper fit but as there was no way he could draw his bow without ripping the seams, he privately disagreed.

Natasha appeared in the doorway of his room. “Well, don’t you look handsome,” she said with a smile. “Come zip me up.”

Clint followed her out into the living room. “Remind me why I’m doing this again,” he said once he’d pulled the little silver tab up the length of her back all the way to the nape of her neck.

“Because you’re always my escort to these events,” Natasha said, turning to face him while pinning one of her earrings in place, “and you’re too much of a gentleman to back out now.”

Clint tugged at the sleeve of his jacket but it didn’t make the fit feel any better to him. He hadn’t been able to eat all day, his stomach twisted up in knots at the thought of the evening ahead of him. “Tell me, Nat,” he said quietly, “just how bad is this going to be?”

Natasha’s face softened. She waited until she finished pinning the other earring in place before speaking. “There are going to be some vultures out there,” she said, “but I’ll be right by your side.”

A soft chime from her phone drew her attention. “The limo is here,” she said after checking the screen. “Let me grab my heels.”

Clint blew out a long breath once she was out of sight. It had been a month since Derek Bishop terminated his contract. Normally, such a thing would have flown under the radar. Archery wasn’t a very popular sport and rarely had media coverage beyond cable sports networks. But this was Olympic season and the story had exploded across the press, helped along by heated debate across social media. Everyone seemed to have an opinion on what had gone down even though the details behind the loss of his sponsorship had been kept tightly under wraps. The non-disclosure agreement Clint had signed was ironclad and even though it chafed at him to not be able to set the record straight, he had to go along with Bishop’s statement that they had a “difference in values and beliefs.”

That one statement was fueling the debates more than anything else. He was the only alpha who had qualified for the Olympic archery team for USA and so he was being scrutinized from every angle. Speculation was running rampant about the meaning behind Bishop’s statement and it had only grown worse when it was leaked that Clint had shown up to the World Archery Championships reeking of pheromones. The latest wild theories seemed to favor him attacking Derek Bishop in rut-lust, the thought of which honestly made Clint want to hurl.

“Ready?”

Clint looked up to see Natasha waiting by the front door. She looked absolutely gorgeous with her hair swept into an elegant updo and dramatic eye makeup designed to emphasize the green of her eyes. Her hand rested lightly on the doorknob, nails painted a deep red to match the color staining her lips. Walking out that door meant taking part in his first press-covered appearance since the loss of his sponsorship. There were going to be questions from reporters that he didn’t particularly want to answer and in some cases, legally couldn’t.

“Wouldn’t you rather go to this with Bruce?” Clint asked, shrugging his shoulders again. It did nothing to change the fit of his jacket and the way the fabric strained across his shoulders made him worry for the fate of his seams that night.

Natasha grimaced, delicate brows drawing together and her nose scrunching. “It’s a little early for us to go public,” she said. “This is not really his thing. Plus, he hasn't been feeling well lately.”

Well, it really wasn’t Clint’s thing either but he’d been Natasha’s go-to date for any formal event for the past couple of years. Before, he’d been able to blend into the background on the arm of the principal ballerina of the New York City Ballet. Tonight, he was definitely going to be thrust into the spotlight. His stomach gave a sudden lurch with nerves.

“Clint.” When Natasha had that particular tone in her voice, he knew it would be in his best interest to pay attention. When he focused on her face, her expression was solemn.

“I don’t know what it’s like to be an alpha,” she said. “But I do know what it’s like to let others dictate how you live your life. It eats away at you until there’s nothing of _you_ left. You just become the amalgamation of other people’s desires.” 

There was an old pain in Natasha’s eyes. By mutual unspoken agreement, neither of them talked much about their lives before they started living together. Her words now were a rare glimpse into her past.

“Hiding doesn’t make the pain go away,” she continued. “And more importantly, hiding does nothing to make things better.”

Clint tried hard not to let on how much the idea of hiding really appealed to him right now. “It’s been a month and no sponsor will come within ten feet of me,” he said instead. “I don’t think tonight will make much of a difference.”

Natasha narrowed her eyes. “It will,” she said, her voice suddenly fierce. “You will show every bigot out there that you are still here. And we will find a way to get you to the Olympics, no matter what.”

They both knew that that was easier said than done. Still, the confidence she had in him buoyed his spirits and Clint forced his feet to move forward until he was standing next to her.

“You’re a good friend,” he said.

Natasha raised a single eyebrow. “And don’t you forget it,” she replied archly and led the way down to the limo.

Despite her roundabout pep talk, his nerves returned once they were in the limo. He had never minded the spotlight while performing or competing but interviews were not his strong suit. The event the limo was headed towards was a charity art auction for the rich and famous. It had absolutely nothing to do with him but once the word had gotten out that Natasha was on the guest list, Buck had been bombarded with requests for Clint to make a public statement. He’d declined them all but there would be reporters lining the red carpet tonight. He had two options: he could stick with the party line of “no comment” or he could say something. 

The limo slowed as it pulled up in front of the gallery where the event was taking place. He still didn’t know what he was going to do and his stomach lurched sickeningly as the limo slid to a stop.

“Breathe,” Natasha murmured. Her smokey voice was a balm to his soul but it didn’t nothing to calm the butterflies in his stomach. “You can do this.”

Clint gave her a jerky nod in return. He pulled in a deep breath, trying to ease the tightness in his chest, and then, before he could change his mind, hit the latch to open the car door. His eyes narrowed against the flashes of light that bombarded him as he stepped onto the curb and he automatically buttoned his jacket, the action ingrained into him after two years of accompanying Natasha to these events. He focused all of his attention on helping her out of the limo, keeping his arm steady for her to grasp as she stepped onto the curb. Natasha nodded once she was upright and they walked slowly up along the red carpet.

Lights flashed and a babble of voices surrounded them, reporters on either side stopping celebrities for brief interviews. They were forced to walk slowly, Natasha being required to let the photographers get as many pictures of her as possible. The red carpet stretched out in front of them and time seemed to slow down to a crawl as they inched their way along it. Clint struggled to keep a somewhat pleasant look on his face - he tended to have a resting face that scared small children - but his mind kept buzzing with the possibility of a reporter stopping them for an interview.

At first, it seemed like his fears were unfounded. Compared to most of the other people there, he wasn’t a celebrity, just an athlete getting his 15 minutes of fame. The gossip mags and the news were more interested in getting interviews with their cash cows, the celebrities who could sell a magazine or generate ratings just by deciding to go to the store in sweatpants one day. The photographers were quick to grab pictures but the reporters largely ignored them for bigger names.

They were almost at the double doors of the gallery when a blonde woman suddenly stepped into their path. A man was right behind her, the light on his camera briefly blinding Clint before he could avert his eyes. She spoke very quickly into a microphone before thrusting it in front of his face.

For a second, Clint froze. She'd held the microphone directly in front of her lips, obscuring them from his view. The glare from the camera’s light combined with the din from people talking around him meant that he'd completely missed whatever she said. Then he forced himself to let out a sheepish chuckle and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I'm sorry,” he said, flashing her a flirty grin and giving her a quick, appreciative glance. “Could you repeat that?”

People had a tendency to speak slower if you asked them to repeat themselves and she’d unconsciously responded to his flirtation by lowering the microphone so that he could better see her crimson mouth. It had the end result he’d been hoping for. Zeroing his gaze on her lips, he wasn't able to understand everything she said but he was able to get the general gist.

“How do I feel about Mr. Bishop’s statement and my chances for the Olympics?” Clint asked slowly, hazarding a guess that it was close enough to her question that she would be fine with him answering it. She nodded, holding the microphone tilted towards him.

Now what? The spotlight was his. What was he going to do with it?

Clint felt a gentle squeeze in his arm - Natasha lending her silent support - and suddenly, it was as if the floodgates opened. All of the hurt and anger over the past month welled up. The loss of his sponsorship. The invasion of his privacy. The brush-offs from any potential new sponsors. The steady decline in students and customers at the range since the news broke and people began to discover who he was. He and Buck had hoped to see an increase in revenue once he'd made it to the Olympic team and instead, they were struggling to keep afloat.

“I only have one thing to say,” Clint practically growled the words. From the look of glee on the reporter’s face, she thought she was going to hit soundbyte gold. “I'm going to do whatever it takes to show the world how far _hard work_ ,” he said, emphasizing the words, “will take you, even all the way to the Olympics.”

The reporter frowned - she was obviously looking for something more inflammatory - and brought the microphone back to her lips. But Clint moved past her, Natasha at his side, and didn't say another word until they were through the double doors of the art gallery.

“Shit. Did I just screw everything up? Should I have just said no comment?” Clint asked in a low voice, as he moved over to one side, out of the direct path of the double doors. The spike of hurt and anger was gone and all that was left was a hollow feeling in his gut. It was true that sponsors were already keeping their distance but he hadn’t wanted to do anything to alienate them further.

Natasha shook her head. “You said what you needed to say,” she said, squeezing his arm again. “Never apologize for that.”

She looked out towards the milling crowd. “I need to pay my compliments to the curator. Do you see a redhead anywhere?”

Clint knew it was an attempt to distract him from what he’d just done but he was grateful nonetheless. Lifting his gaze, he scanned the crowd.

This was the upper echelon of society and it was blatantly obvious in the designer suits and gowns that everyone wore. As was traditional, necks and shoulders were kept covered but the amount of cleavage, back, and leg that was being shown by the cut of the women’s gowns gave the lie to the modesty that code of dress was supposed to evoke. While skin-tight enough to show her curves, Natasha’s dress with its long sleeves and floor length was almost nun-like in comparison to the wisps of fabric gracing some of the other women in the room.

Clint spotted a woman with strawberry blonde hair clad in a pure white dress suit. There was a small crowd gathered around her as she gestured towards a painting on the wall.

“The woman in white?” Clint said, nodding his head in her direction.

Natasha nodded but Clint was 90% sure she’d already known exactly where the curator was. He let her lead him through the crowd, grateful to fade into the background like he normally did at these events. He hung back as Natasha moved forward to greet the woman, easily breaking through the people milling around her. The woman’s smile turned genuine when she caught sight of Natasha and she completely ignored the people around them to give her a greeting.

Clint let his gaze wander over the crowd as he slowly drifted towards an empty wall. It wasn’t conscious but, out of habit, he positioned himself so that he couldn’t be easily identified by the cameras now that he didn’t have to be glued to Natasha’s side. Years of dodging Child Protective Services and helping Barney with petty thefts had ingrained in him the instinct to avoid detection and he felt himself relax marginally once he was tucked into a corner formed by the wall and a decorative pillar.

Despite the fact that it was an art auction, few people were paying any attention to the paintings on the walls. Instead, they clustered in groups, chatting and sipping from flutes of champagne. This was about talking with and being seen with the right people, a continuation of the photo op from the red carpet outside. Every once in a while, one or two people would break off from one group and join another. Wait staff glided through the crowd, holding trays of appetizers that most ignored and full flutes of champagne that people were all too happy to exchange for their empty ones. One of the waiters passed in front of him, barely slowing down his stride, but Clint snapped his arm out and snagged a mini-quiche, stomach growling with hunger now.

A purposeful movement in the crowd caught Clint’s eye. There was a man making his way through the gallery, smoothly sidestepping anyone who wandered into his path but heading directly towards the group where Natasha was still laughing with the curator. He moved with singular intent, steps firm and jaw clenched tight, and no one seemed inclined to stop him.

Clint paused with the mini-quiche halfway towards his mouth. He knew that man, had spent a week coaxing moans from his throat and burying himself in his scent. Clint had a flash memory of sinking his teeth deep into the man’s shoulder as he shuddered out his release and a reflective shiver traveled down the length of his spine.

“Phil?”


	27. Chapter 27

Clint stared across the room, mini-quiche completely forgotten in his hand. Phil had come up behind the curator, interrupting her conversation. Clint watched as Phil made his excuses to the group before leaning forward to whisper in her ear. The woman frowned as she listened intently to his words, her head turning slightly to better hear him.

Were they standing a little too close together? Clint shifted uncomfortably as he watched the woman respond to Phil’s words, her frown deepening before she turned around to face him completely. There was a flicker of an emotion in his chest as Clint watched them bend their heads toward each other, something that he absolutely refused to call jealousy.

He had no claim on Phil. They’d shared a single heat together, brought together by a fluke of biology and circumstance. He had no right to want to pull Phil away from that woman, to press against him, to loosen the collar of his dress shirt…

Clint blinked and abruptly halted his forward stride. He blew out a shuddering breath and struggled to get a hold of himself. Thankfully, he’d only taken a single step towards Phil, not enough movement to be noticed. Phil finished speaking to the woman and turned around without even a glance Clint’s way, heading back the same direction he’d come.

Indecision warred within Clint. Phil had his own life, one in which Clint had absolutely no role. But even if there was nothing connecting them now - no cycle, no relationship, no claim, no mark - he still felt the urge to make sure Phil was okay. He’d left so suddenly after his heat and Clint hadn’t forgotten how vulnerable he’d looked at the end. Seeing Phil again made Clint’s alpha instincts flare to life, a primal urge to make absolutely sure his omega was satisfied.

Clint grimaced and shook his head. No, not _his_ omega. Clint simply wanted to check on Phil and make sure that he had recovered. Phil hadn't had a heat for three years and the one they’d spent together had not been an easy one, for either Phil or him. If he heard from Phil’s lips that he was okay - something that Clint was sure was the case anyway - then maybe this urge would go away.

Mind made up, Clint threw the mini-quiche into a nearby trash can and set off in the direction Phil had gone. Phil had already disappeared from view by then but Clint had seen where he’d ducked out of sight through a side exit from the main gallery. Making his way through the crowd to the spot where he last saw Phil proved to be a frustrating endeavor. The copious amount of champagne was starting to kick in and people’s voices had grown louder, tongues loosened by the free-flowing alcohol. It sometimes took several tries for him to catch people’s attention so he could squeeze by them without touching, not wanting to get any of their scent on him.

When Clint finally reached the spot where he last saw Phil, he found the exit blocked off by a velvet rope strung between two short golden poles. After quickly glancing around to make sure he was unnoticed, he slipped beyond the rope to find an empty hallway. A very empty hallway.

Clint flared his nostrils, breathing in deep, as he moved down the hallway but it was no use. The gallery’s state of the art scrubbers quickly filtered scents from the air, leaving a slight chemical tang behind. The hallway stretched the length of the main gallery with a fire exit at the end and restrooms halfway down. Some closed doors to either side looked like they led to offices or storerooms; it didn’t seem likely that Phil had gone through one of them. Hoping against hope that Phil hadn’t left the gallery, Clint headed for the men’s restroom.

A man was washing his hands at the sink when Clint pushed open the restroom door. The brief flare of emotion in his chest was quickly doused when Clint realized that the man was definitely not Phil, considering the professionally styled black hair and distinctive goatee he was sporting. There were a couple of stalls but a quick glance revealed that both doors were ajar. There didn’t appear to be anyone else there.

“Looking for someone?”

Clint looked up to see the man’s brown eyes on him through the large mirror that hung over the sinks. His gaze was oddly intense, shiny and bright.

“Uh, yeah.” Clint cleared his throat, feeling oddly nervous about admitting it. “I thought I saw someone I knew come down this hallway. I guess he left.”

“I’m sure he’ll be sorry he missed you. I know I would be.” The slight echo against the tile combined with the running water made it harder for Clint to hear clearly. The man flicked his fingers a few times, water droplets flying, as the automatic faucet shut off before grabbing a couple of paper towels. After drying his hands, he turned and fixed his gaze on Clint directly, giving him an unmistakable once-over and a flirtatious smirk. “Maybe we can keep each other company instead.”

The realization hit Clint a moment before the man’s scent did, seductive and inviting. An omega - one that Clint was compatible with considering the reactive swelling at the base of his cock - who was in the first bloom of heat, before hormones took over rational thought.

Clint took a step back. There was a sudden roaring in his ears, the blood rushing in his veins in response to his suddenly racing heart. He took another step back and another and another, letting the restroom door swing shut between them, until he was pressed against the wall opposite. There was a rough, rasping sound as he drew in breath. This could not be happening again to him. How did he get into these situations?

“You have got to be kidding me,” he whispered to himself.

The restroom door swung open and the man stepped into the hallway with a puzzled but amused look on his face. “I feel like I should be insulted,” he said, “but I’m not entirely sure what just happened.”

Clint opened his mouth but just then, the fire door opened. Phil stepped through the doorway, face drawn into harsh lines, and one hand reaching into his open suit jacket. Clint felt every muscle in his body lock up even as his heart seemed to stutter on its next beat. He knew that stance, had kept his eyes on enough plainclothes police officers to instantly recognize when one was reaching for a weapon.

For a moment, the three of them were completely still, a frozen tableau. Phil took in the scene in a single glance, eyes narrowing when his gaze landed on Clint. To his disappointment, Clint couldn’t tell if there was any recognition in that hard gaze. Then Phil broke the silence.

“Stark, where’s Happy? And I told you to go directly to the car.”

He spoke to the man but his gaze didn’t shift from Clint’s face. Clint couldn’t tear his own eyes away from Phil either. This was clearly Phil in his element, his very presence commanding attention from everyone present. It was clear to see why he’d had such a hard time letting go during his heat.

“I sent Happy on a cheeseburger run.” Clint’s eyes automatically darted towards Stark when he started speaking, to better hear what he was saying, even though it was hard to pull his gaze away from Phil. Stark’s voice was easygoing, heedless of the tension thickening the air. “The hors d'oeuvres here are terrible. A travesty, really, considering how much I shelled out for the catering. Then I got a little distracted.”

Stark flashed a suggestive grin at Clint. “What do you say? I’d love to get a look at what’s underneath that suit.”

For a split second, Clint thought the growl that split the air meant that someone else had stumbled onto the scene. But no, he realized with stunned amazement as it cut off abruptly, it was _Phil_ , the muscle jumping in his jaw revealing his emotions even as his face looked as if it had been carved out of marble.

Stark looked between the two of them. “Do you two know each other?” He sounded intrigued, delighted even, by the possibility.

“Stark. The car. Now.” Phil gritted out the words between his clenched teeth.

“Oh, no no no.” Stark crossed his arms, a wide grin stretching across his face. “This is much more interesting. How do you two know each other?”

“Stark,” Phil snapped. “He’s an alpha and you’re in heat. It’s too dangerous for you to stay here.”

Clint straightened up as those words registered. He stared at Phil, hurt and anger colliding in his chest. Logically, he knew that Phil knew next to nothing about him and that their first encounter had basically started off with Clint hunting his scent down while in the first throes of rut. It still hurt though that Phil thought he would have so little control. After all, hadn’t Clint proved himself on the plane? He hadn’t moved a muscle until Phil had given the word.

Stark clearly didn’t feel he was in danger because he gave Phil a dismissive wave. “My heat’s barely started.” He glanced between at the two of them again and the calculating light that entered his eyes put Clint instantly on edge. “Speaking of which, I never got an answer to my question,” he said before taking a deliberate step towards Clint.

The burst of pheromones that filled the hallway was dizzying in its intensity, overpowering the efforts of the scrubbers. In the next moment, Phil was between him and Stark, the muscles of his neck and shoulders taut with tension. He’d angled his body to be able to keep both of them in sight but his head was turned towards Stark. Clint drew in a startled breath and felt blood rush downwards, the base of his cock swelling even more in reaction to Phil’s potent scent.

Stark’s eyebrows shot towards the ceiling but he immediately stopped moving. “When you said it was dangerous,” he said, “were you talking about him or yourself?”

Phil didn’t answer but he raised his hand to his right ear. Clint spotted a disc nestled in its curve, colored to almost perfectly match Phil’s skin tone before Phil’s finger covered it.

“Tripp.” Phil’s voice had dropped into a low growl. With Phil facing away from him, Clint couldn’t quite make out the next words he said. Phil’s hand dropped away from his ear but he otherwise didn’t move. Neither did Clint or Stark until the fire door swung open again.

“Stark.” Phil’s voice brooked no argument. “Go. Now.”

Stark’s shrewd gaze lingered on the two of them but this time, he took heed of Phil’s words and headed towards the exit. When Stark was halfway to the door, Phil stepped away from Clint to the other side of the hallway, swinging around to face him with a closed off expression. Clint felt a pang as his scent faded in intensity, unable to stop a brief flaring of his nostrils at the loss of the rich aroma. The man standing in the doorway gave them all a long, considering look as Stark passed by him and stepped out into the parking lot. Beyond the exit, Clint could see a waiting limo, the car door already held open by the driver.

“Everything all right in here, sir?”

“Everything’s fine, Tripp,” Phil replied evenly, not taking his eyes off of Clint. “See that Stark gets back safely.”

Tripp didn’t move a muscle. He looked over at Clint, brows drawing together in concern. “You sure?”

Phil’s face tightened. “I gave you an order, Tripp,” he said and Clint could hear the warning in his tone.

Tripp nodded, lips pressed together. “Yes, sir,” he said before letting the fire door swing close behind him.

For his part, Clint didn’t dare move a muscle. The tension in Phil’s shoulders hadn’t lessened with the departure of Stark although his scent gradually faded away, the scrubbers doing their job to clear the air. Clint couldn’t tell what Phil was thinking, his expression completely impenetrable.

Seeing the danger written into every line of Phil’s stance, Clint was reminded that he knew very little about the omega.

A muscle jumped in Phil’s jaw again and he seemed to come to some decision. “We can’t talk here,” he said. “Let’s go.” He waved towards the exit, indicating wordlessly that Clint should start walking.

“Whoa, wait,” Clint said, alarm spiking. “I’m here with someone. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Stop talking,” Phil ordered. A flare of irritation had Clint clenching his own teeth. “I need to debrief you and it won’t be here.”

A debrief? This wasn’t what he’d signed up for when he decided to follow Phil. It was supposed to be a simple check-in and then he could get back to his life. Clint couldn’t deny that being bossed around by Phil in the middle of his heat had been hot. Now, it was annoying.

He batted his eyes at Phil mockingly. “Sorry,” he said in a sickeningly sweet voice. “I think I’ll keep my underwear on this time.”

Phil’s chest rose and fell in a deliberate breath that did nothing to cool Clint’s temper. It reminded him of the way most of the nuns had treated him at the orphanage, failing to hide their frustration when he didn’t follow their instructions, even though half the time he hadn’t heard them in the first place. 

“I have to follow protocol - ” Phil started to say.

“I don’t care about your protocol,” Clint interrupted. “I followed you for one reason and one reason only.”

He could, and should, just leave right now but his alpha instincts were still nagging at him. Clint hated the rare occasions when his biology asserted itself and refused to be overruled but if he could just get an answer to his question, maybe he would be able to put all of this behind him and move on.

“Are you okay?”

There was no overt change in expression but the skin around Phil’s eyes lost some of its pinched look, indicating his surprise. “What?”

Clint stepped forward. Phil tensed in response but Clint ignored it, letting himself succumb to the need to get closer. His scent may have been erased from the air but it still clung to the fabric of Phil’s suit. It was rich and heady and somehow even more intoxicating than it’d been during his heat. The smell grounded Clint, soothing his alpha nature and leeching away the anger.

“I know last month was hard,” Clint said, gentling his voice. He didn’t reference their shared cycle directly, not wanting to put Phil any more on edge. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

If it was possible, Phil’s expression hardened even further. “What are you doing?”

Clint frowned. He hadn’t expected Phil to reply with such hostility in his tone to the simple question. “What do you mean?”

“Do you think you know something about me now? Something intimate?” Phil’s eyes narrowed menacingly. He took a step forward of his own so that they were inches apart. “Something personal that you can leverage against me?”

“What?” Their conversation had somehow taken a turn and Clint wasn’t sure where. “I don’t - ”

“Let me show you just how wrong you are.” Before Clint could react, Phil’s lips were covering his own.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback and comments are much appreciated. Sometimes I'll talk about fic updates on [Tumblr](http://kaguya-yoru.tumblr.com/); feel free to chat with me there. If you want an idea of when I might be updating next, go [here](https://kaguya-yoru.tumblr.com/tagged/kaguya-fics).


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